


Fall Down at Your Door

by diemarysues



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (partially) Epistolary, Alternate Universe, Angst, Animal Transformation, First Meetings, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Healing, M/M, Magic, Minor Violence, Poisoning, Prompt Fill, Romance, Slow Burn, Universe Alteration, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:16:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1385635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smaug doesn't exist, our favourite Dwarves are in the Blue Mountains, and Bilbo gets turned into a cat.</p><p>Guess who takes him in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blue and Silver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [overtherisingstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/overtherisingstar/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Nine Lives, Four Paws, Two Ears, One Bilbo - Or: It Started With A Cup Of Tea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1351660) by [alkjira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alkjira/pseuds/alkjira). 



> [Prompt fill](http://overtherisingstar.tumblr.com/post/80345425817/bagginshield-animal-au-plot-bunny), and it absolutely got away from me.
> 
> alkjira wrote the [modern version](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1351660) of this fic, and helped me with a read through. Any remaining mistakes are my own, please do point them out - unless it deals with any of the points in the end notes. js.
> 
> Title from 'I'm Gonna Be (500 miles)', which is pretty much on repeat rn.
> 
> A picture of Bilbo-as-a-cat will be included below.

 

* * *

 

Today was turning out to be a supremely poor one.

 

Having been on the way to visit some relatives, the cart Bilbo had been riding on lost one wheel. Apparently the damage had been bad enough and the weather looked miserable enough that the cart-driver had advised Bilbo put up at an inn for the night. Bilbo had paid the Man for the two days of service seeing as he’d been very kind, as Big Folk went, and then set about looking for a place to sleep and (more importantly) have some dinner.

 

Rather unfortunately, in his search he was beset by some unscrupulous characters. It was obvious that they’d noticed his coin purse and thought his (comparatively) diminutive size meant he would be an easy target. However, ignoring all the common sense his parents had drummed into him, Bilbo did _not_ surrender his money without fuss. Instead, turned on his heel and ran.

 

Surprise lent Bilbo a few moments’ head start, but the would-be robbers had longer legs and longer strides, managing to catch him up easily. Bilbo was more nimble, though, and was able to duck under obstacles and squeeze through gaps with little trouble.

 

No, the trouble happened when he bumped into the Wizard.

 

At least, Bilbo thought it was a Wizard. He’d only met one before, but this definitely wasn’t Gandalf. She was clad in deep blue robes, for one, and her pointed hat was the same colour as the midnight sky. (It even had tiny sparkling points like stars, which was strange.)

 

She didn’t notice Bilbo at all, despite the fact that he’d collided with her heavily enough to fall back on his bottom. She was more absorbed in punching the shoulder of her companion (who was also a Wizard, dressed in similar colours, only with dark robes and a brighter hat). They laughed, knocked their staffs together, and then started walking away.

 

Bilbo called out – but whether this was to apologise or to demand an apology, he didn’t quite know or find out, because what came out of his mouth startled all thought from his head.

 

He’d _meowed_.

 

Puzzled and unhappy, Bilbo tried out several words (including a curse he’d overheard the cart-driver use when the wheel of his cart had broken), only to conclude that he could only meow – or that he could only hear meows. Only then did he look down at himself and notice that, one: his clothes were nowhere to be found and, two: he was a cat.

 

 _He was a cat_.

 

Of course, in keeping with the trend of the day, as soon as Bilbo realised this alarming fact, it started raining. Heavily.

 

Wasn’t that just lovely?

 

* * *

 

It didn’t take long for Bilbo to feel absolutely miserable. Just to be clear, this had nothing to do with a suddenly-developed aversion to water. Anyone would feel worse for the wear when completely waterlogged, including little Hobbits who had suddenly been turned into a cat.

 

Bilbo had observed that he seemed to have retained some of his features from before the transformation. His fur was the same honey-brown as his curls had been, a little shaggy and unsurprisingly sodden. His legs were short, leaving him very close to the ground (nearer to puddles too, ugh) and very easily overlooked by people braving the rain. His paws – _feet_ – were bigger than cats usually had, which was a relief. He rather thought that he’d fall over very often if that had happened.

 

He knew he was being calmer about the whole situation than anyone would expect, but that just meant panicking would happen later – when he wasn’t out in public, and had time for his imagination to come up with every scenario of things going absolutely wrong. Then he’d panic.

 

Eager to get out of the way of booted feet – whether swinging at him accidentally or deliberately aimed – Bilbo found shelter in an alleyway. It took a few tries to curl up as he’d seen cats do, because managing four feet and a tail was more difficult than Bilbo had expected. Not that being turned into a cat was something to be expected.

 

The biggest problem Bilbo foresaw was that no one would miss him. Not for a long while, that was. Those in Hobbiton (particularly the Gamgees who were looking after Bag End, and the Sackville-Bagginses who were enraged about this fact) thought he was off visiting family. That family had no idea he was on the way, given that his visit was supposed to be a surprise. Even the cart-driver would just assume Bilbo had changed his mind or found some other form of transport – having been paid, his searching would be half-hearted at best.

 

The second biggest problem was the most obvious one: he was a cat. He’d been turned into one, that was, with no way of reversing the situation. (Yet.) So he was four-footed and furry for the foreseeable future, without any coin (that had disappeared along with his clothes, weirdly enough), and no way to obtain food. His tummy chose this moment to remind Bilbo that he was quite hungry indeed.

 

Maybe he could hunt for food. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Bilbo wrinkled his nose, twitching his whiskers in the process. He didn’t want to kill mice or rats or birds, only to eat them raw. Just imagining it left a bad taste in his mouth – think of what would happen if he actually did it!

 

He didn’t think that stealing proper food would be a good idea, either. He may not have been Hobbit shaped at the moment, but that didn’t mean he’d lost his principles. Stealing, _really_.

 

It looked like there was nothing else for it – he’d have to hope someone took him in. He’d be given food and a dry place to sleep (Bilbo distastefully shifted, still very damp)… and then he’d be able to repay that person for their kindness, if he was turned back into a Hobbit.

 

Not if. When.

 

The only trouble was… who would take him in?

 

By the time the rain stopped and Bilbo ventured from his (hopefully temporary) shelter, darkness proper had fallen. There weren’t very many people on the street, and those that were seemed… less than savoury. In fact, Bilbo thought he recognised his attackers from earlier, and very quickly turned tail –

 

\- and walked into someone’s heavy boot.

 

Winded, Bilbo sat down, hard. His vision cleared quickly and he glanced up to a stern countenance; the boot had apparently belonged to a scary-looking Dwarf who was dark-haired (with a touch or two of silver) and who had the palest blue eyes Bilbo had ever seen. He was so entranced by the sight that he remained seated instead of running away as was wise. This Dwarf did not look overly patient.

 

However, his severe expression abruptly softened, surprising Bilbo immensely. He watched as the Dwarf kneeled before him, and a careful finger was extended towards him. When Bilbo did nothing (had the Dwarf expected scratches or biting? Bilbo hadn’t yet figured how to extend his claws, if he had them), the tiniest of smiles curled the Dwarf’s thin lips, and he stroked the top of Bilbo’s head.

 

After all the runs of bad luck today, this was a very welcome and pleasant sensation, and Bilbo suddenly started purring with no knowledge of how he was doing so or how to stop it.

 

“I apologise for not noticing you sooner, little one,” said the Dwarf. His voice was deep and surprisingly lovely to listen to. Bilbo’s purring grew louder, quite without his consent – but seeing as it made the Dwarf’s smile grow as well, it was not a hardship. “You look hungry.”

 

Bilbo wanted to shout “Yes!”, but all he could manage was an emphatic “ _Mrow_!” He bobbed his head in a passable nod, just to make sure he was understood.

 

“Do you have a home? A master?”

 

Now Bilbo shook his head; it was strangely difficult. Cat bodies were not as easy to control as Hobbit ones, it had to be said. But then he’d had 50 years to use his Hobbit body.

 

The Dwarf now wore an expression of mild surprise and fascination. “Can you understand me?” he asked, but even as Bilbo responded he chuckled lightly. “What am I saying? You’re a cat.”

 

Bilbo narrowed his eyes at this, wishing he had a mouth with lips that he could purse together disapprovingly. As it was, he stopped purring, which seemed to convey his annoyance well enough.

 

“Peace, little one. I meant no offense.” He stroked Bilbo’s head again, far more gently than Bilbo would’ve thought possible. “You are a fine cat.”

 

He was supposed to be a fine Hobbit – but fine Hobbits did not get scratched behind the ears by Dwarves. Fine Hobbits didn’t enjoy such a thing enough to lean into the contact while their eyes grew half-lidded.

 

“Given your hunger and mine, what say we have supper?”

 

Bilbo’s tummy rumbled again; he was back to purring, and braced his paws on the Dwarf’s boot (he couldn’t stretch far enough to reach even his knees). His grateful “Yes, please!” came out of his mouth as an odd chirruping noise, but the Dwarf seemed to catch the gist. He chuckled again before carefully scooping Bilbo into his arms and getting to his feet. It was quite a ways up, which was why Bilbo burrowed securely against strong muscles.

 

Yes. Stability was the only reason. Oh, and the promise of food. That too.

 

* * *

 

The innkeeper looked like he wanted to insist Bilbo be kept outside, but the Dwarf smoothed the frown from the Man’s brow with the judicious flash of an extra coin.

 

Bilbo of course felt extra pangs to his conscience about this (over the indignation of being viewed as some feral animal). He would have to keep track of all the money spent on him, and then add more for services rendered. He just hoped this Dwarf would accept it instead of killing Bilbo; he seemed reasonable enough, but Bilbo had never met a Dwarf before. Who knew what they were capable of?

 

It seemed that this particular one was capable of great kindness. Supper was sent to the room on a tray, and alongside the Dwarf’s food was a small cup of goats’ milk. Despite the fact that it smelled absolutely delicious, a cup was not something a cat-shaped Hobbit could manage whatever the size, given the way he almost tipped it over. The Dwarf chided his impatience, rescuing the cup before tipping some of the milk onto an empty plate.

 

Oh. Alright. He could manage that.

 

Bilbo soon discovered that even drinking milk was harder than cats made it look; his first attempt went badly, given that he’d overestimated the distance between his face and the plate of milk. He sneezed violently, almost falling off the table.

 

“Be patient.” The Dwarf was immersed in plucking the stems off the tiny tomatoes on his plate. (Despite Hobbit-Bilbo’s partiality to tomatoes, cat-Bilbo thought they smelled terrible.) “You’re as bad as my sister-sons.”

 

Yes, well, this Dwarf’s nephews hadn’t been turned into cats by accident, so it was hardly the same. Bilbo’s complaining meows explaining this were silenced when his head was stroked. (Why did it feel so nice to be petted?)

 

“Perhaps try again,” the Dwarf suggested, “only slowly.”

 

Sniffing disdainfully, Bilbo nonetheless did as told. This time he managed to get the milk into his mouth, instead of his nose, though this whole lapping business was very much slower than simply being able to drink. He did eventually finish with a full stomach, helped by the pieces of cooked pork supplied to him by the Dwarf.

 

It was then time for sleep (ideally a pipe of Longbottom Leaf would have been greatly appreciated). Dwarves seemed a strange race because this one went to bed fully clothed – boots included – with his axe beside him. Or maybe that was just paranoia. Bilbo, tired from the stress of the day and happily full, settled on the pillow by dark hair and closed his eyes.

 

He was quite sure that he managed to purr himself to sleep.

 

* * *

 

When Bilbo opened his eyes, he was convinced that he was dreaming. Everything seemed bigger than it should have even despite being in a Mannish town, he seemed to be sharing a room with a softly breathing Dwarf, and – goodness – were those paws?

 

Abruptly remembering what had happened yesterday, Bilbo surged to his feet. Or he tried to. 50 years worth of memories of two feet warred with the few hours he’d walked on four; the result was that he half-rose, rolled, and fell of the bed.

 

Mostly. His hands – front paws – had caught the edge. It turned out that he _did_ own claws, but that wasn’t comforting. Bilbo wished he could cry like if he’d been a Hobbit – Hobbits didn’t have claws, or paws, or tails! He should have run after the two Wizards yesterday and demanded to be turned back. Never mind that they’d disappeared from view in the time in took for Bilbo to actually believe he’d been transformed into a cat. He should have tried.

 

He attempted to tug his paws free but they were well and truly caught. His back legs dangled a few inches over the floor.

 

Bilbo closed his eyes and desperately wished he’d become a Hobbit again.

 

He must have made some sort of noise, because the Dwarf – for it could only have been him – said, “What are you doing?”

 

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” Bilbo said hotly, and then swallowed the rest of his protests. It wasn’t as if his words-turned-meows would be understandable.

 

The Dwarf only looked slightly rumpled from having slept in all his clothes, and grumbled under his breath. He moved closer to the edge of the bed so he could cup a hand underneath Bilbo and lift him slightly. Then he very gently unhooked Bilbo’s claws from the sheet. “Better?”

 

The uncontrollable purring started again, even before Bilbo made himself look up at those blue eyes. The Dwarf only shook his head and glanced to the window; Bilbo followed his gaze. It was dark, still before dawn. The Dwarf obviously thought it was far too early to be awake and lay down on his side. He tucked Bilbo between his arm and chest.

 

Still troubled, but gradually calming, Bilbo fell asleep to steady beat of the Dwarf’s heart.

 

* * *

 

Having been forced to do what was supposed to be _private business_ outside – as in outside, in public – Bilbo was already in a poor mood when faced with the pony. Firstly, it was a pony. Ponies and Hobbits did not mix, especially considering that brisk walks (and the occasional cart ride) were more than adequate for travelling from one place to another.

 

Secondly, it meant that the Dwarf lived elsewhere (though maybe he could have realised that earlier, seeing as they’d gone to an inn last night instead of a house. His excuse was being tired and hungry and out of sorts.)

 

Luckily for Bilbo, being a cat had somehow made his allergies disappear. He didn’t sneeze once. Instead he sat in front of the Dwarf, one large hand holding him steady, and tried to get used to the rhythmic swaying motion as the pony made its way to their destination.

 

Distraction came in the form of soft humming that made Bilbo’s ears twitch. He wasn’t quite sure if it was because of his changed sense of hearing, but the Dwarf’s voice was awfully pleasant to listen to. Bilbo almost wished that he would start singing in earnest (the thought of that deep, dark voice caressing the notes of a song made Bilbo shiver – in appreciation, that was), but the Dwarf kept his humming low and soft. As if for Bilbo’s ears only, but that was silly. Who sung to a cat?

 

They travelled like this for two weeks. In this time, Bilbo became accustomed to riding a pony and, er, finding bushes that concealed him while he was _busy_. He also learned that his Dwarf – that was to say, _this_ Dwarf, slip of the tongue there – was an accomplished hunter.

 

Despite thinking that Bilbo couldn’t understand him – or perhaps because of it – the Dwarf continued talking to Bilbo like he was an equal. He ‘taught’ Bilbo how best to skin rabbits, and explained how he had forged his sword and axe with his own hands. He even told tale of his youth, when he would lead his two siblings and sometimes their cousins in horrible acts of mischief.

 

Bilbo listened to all of these with rapt attention, not least because he was usually scratched or petted at the same time. It was _nice_ to listen to his – to the Dwarf, especially because it made him seem less forbidding than his bearing suggested. Bilbo had a brief run of guilt over being freely offered these facets of personality – given that he was being told all these on the (false) assumption that he understood none of it – but figured that it couldn’t be helped. The Dwarf seemed like a simple soul, and sweet, so even when Bilbo’s true shape of being a Hobbit was revealed, Bilbo doubted the Dwarf would feel too betrayed. Hopefully.

 

However, when their destination was reached and revealed, Bilbo rescinded this opinion. It had taken mere moments in the mountain for him to learn the identity of his Dwarf.

 

His name was Thorin… and he was King.

 

* * *

 

For most of the first day in the Blue Mountains, Bilbo sulked.

 

This was unreasonable of him, maybe, but he still felt like Thorin could have made it clearer that he was royalty. What King went travelling on his own, without guards or an escort? Was that even allowed? And why did Dwarf kings have to make their own weapons and know how to cook food? Bilbo didn’t think that royalty bothered with such things. He knew some snooty Hobbits like that – namely, Hobbits that weren’t self sufficient. Few Hobbits took up weapons at all, much less made them.

 

Now that he had the information, though, Bilbo could grudgingly admit that it made sense that Thorin was King. He held himself tall and proud; regally. Still, that didn’t excuse the Dwarf in Bilbo’s eyes, and he refused to even look at Thorin.

 

The _King_ hadn’t been bothered by this, shrugging and muttering something about Bilbo needing to grow accustomed to his new home. Bilbo had merely sniffed.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo eventually conceded that Thorin wasn’t to blame for being King. It would be different to repay a slighted King (if he did end up slighted by Bilbo’s ‘deception’), but hopefully it wouldn’t be impossible to reason with him. He seemed passably intelligent, though Bilbo figured that that would be a prerequisite to ruling a kingdom.

 

Given that he was no closer to being a Hobbit again, Bilbo decided to make the best of the situation. Thorin liked cat Bilbo, and Bilbo liked Thorin the blacksmith. Surely things wouldn’t be so bad with Thorin the King.

 

Indeed, being ruler meant that Thorin had certain privileges of rank. One of them was the soft bed in his private quarters, which he didn’t seem to share with anyone but Bilbo. It was large enough for four Dwarves, much less one Dwarf and a Hobbit-turned-cat, but Bilbo always found himself either on the pillow by Thorin’s head, or atop the Dwarf’s solid chest.

 

There seemed to be a lot of the latter happening, if Bilbo was entirely honest. But, if he _was_ being entirely honest, he might have admitted that this had to do with how comfortable Thorin was in the Blue Mountains compared to in a town of Men. That was to say, comfortable enough to sleep in only a pair of breeches.

 

What? He was currently a cat. There was hardly any harm in sleeping nestled in dark chest hair, just as there was no harm in looking. (And, oh, did he look his fill and more.)

 

There was something that did make Bilbo feel guilty though: Thorin’s trust. Given free reign of the Mountains (although he didn’t choose to wander far), Bilbo had seen the way Thorin interacted with others. There was very little chance that the Dwarf would’ve confided in Bilbo as much as he did if he knew his ‘cat’ was actually a Hobbit, just as there was very little chance of Thorin letting Bilbo sit in his lap while gently rubbing Bilbo behind the ears.

 

Currently Thorin was doing this very thing, though he kept his right hand free for writing.

 

“You are lucky to be a cat,” said the Dwarf King, sighing as he signed yet another parchment.

 

Bilbo snorted quietly. Lucky wasn’t the word he would have used.

 

“Most of this day was spent with the guild heads. Very few are ever satisfied with the loans the kingdom provides. It is good that weapons are not allowed for such things.”

 

Frankly, that sounded rather like family reunions in the Shire. Relatives did love each other (mostly), but being gathered together for long periods of time meant that everything degenerated into sniping and fighting sooner or later. Bilbo made a sympathetic noise before jumping onto the table.

 

Thorin’s writing was bold and neat, and he scratched runes into the parchment with the tip of his tongue between his teeth. Bilbo moved his gaze on Thorin’s face, since he knew the runes were unrecognizable to him, just like the unrecognizable language the Dwarves spoke in. Bilbo knew Westron and a smattering of Sindarin, but the Dwarvish tongue was starkly different. It was rough and powerful, and Bilbo wondered if any non-Dwarves had been taught it. (He wondered if he could be taught it after he became a Hobbit again.)

 

This train of thought was abandoned when Thorin balled a piece of parchment into a ball. Almost all of Bilbo’s concentration went to what was essentially rubbish, batting it to and fro – a small part of his mind despaired at how easily he could be distracted.

 

Oh, who cared? The bit of parchment had rolled to the far side of the desk and Bilbo bunched his legs, staring determinedly at the ball just in case it decided to move on its own. It didn’t, however, remaining innocuous and innocent even as Bilbo pounced.

 

He seemed to have miscalculated – perhaps he shouldn’t have wriggled his bum for extra springiness – because though his front paws made contact with the ball, his momentum carried his back paws up and over his head. It was strangely exhilarating, despite background thoughts that he was being absolutely ridiculous. Thorin occasionally joined in, flicking the paper for Bilbo to chase and chuckling when Bilbo gave up and started chewing on it instead.

 

At last Thorin stopped writing. He flexed his fingers before rubbing his palm over his face, leaving a smudge of ink across his nose. Bilbo wished he could laugh.

 

“Between you and I, little one,” Thorin said, scratching underneath Bilbo’s chin (a truly _heavenly_ experience each time), “I do not know if I am a good King.”

 

This made Bilbo’s ears prick to attention. _What_?

 

“My father died too soon; alongside my grandfather and many of our kin, before the gates of Moria. I cannot help but think how his rule would be different to mine – better than mine.” He sat back in his chair, looking down at the cat in his lap, who looked back with concern. “Would Frerin or Dís be more suited for the throne? Would Dáin?”

 

Frerin and Dís were Thorin’s brother and sister. He could guess that Dáin was a relative with equal claim to Erebor’s kingship, but this was the first time Bilbo heard of him. For some inexplicable reason, however, he felt that Thorin was wrong to doubt himself. He instinctually thought that Thorin was a good king, perhaps because he thought Thorin was a good person. After all, Thorin did not treat him like a subject – he treated him like a friend.

 

A friend who could fit in Thorin’s palms and couldn’t talk, but a friend all the same.

 

“You must think I am quite silly.”

 

Bilbo meowed in agreement, jumping onto Thorin’s lap before thumping his paw onto Thorin’s belly – which ended up more of a gentle pat than a thump, but he was a very little cat. It managed to make Thorin smile, however; Bilbo counted it a victory.

 

“It’s funny – or sad – that I have never voiced these concerns to anyone. Not even family.” Thorin tapped his forefinger against Bilbo’s nose, startling him. “And yet when you come along…” He tapped Bilbo’s nose again, prompting Bilbo to bite his thumb. Thorin didn’t flinch. “If I didn’t know better, I would suspect that there is magic afoot.”

 

But there _was_ magic afoot! Not in Thorin’s opening up to him, obviously, but Bilbo’s cat-form. If only he could make Thorin realise this.

 

Unfortunately, Thorin seemed intent on wallowing in self doubt and pity. “I’m sure Father would have settled the arguments amongst the guilds. I do well enough when I am in a forge, with hammer and tongs, with metal and stone. Politics is tiresome.” A corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Diplomacy even more so.”

 

Unable to advise Thorin, Bilbo crawled his way up the Dwarf’s torso (without using his claws, because those only came out when he was very frightened) and rubbed his head against Thorin’s neck.

 

Thorin smoothed his hand down Bilbo’s back, making him melt against the Dwarf’s solid body. The thing in his body that controlled purring – because it definitely wasn’t a conscious decision – seemed to be more active than usual. Bilbo felt like his whole body was vibrating with it.

 

He still heard Thorin whisper “Thank you,” over his purring. Bilbo closed his eyes. Thorin sounded so unlike himself, voice soft and unsure and almost broken. It felt wrong to his ears. As Thorin continued drawing his hand down Bilbo’s back with long, slow strokes, Bilbo felt his resolve harden. There would be no more passive waiting. Maybe they could figure out how to return things to normal if he just tried to tell Thorin that he wasn’t really a cat. Bilbo just had to figure out _how_.

 

Then he could tell Thorin that he, at least, thought him a great king.

 

* * *

 

Inspiration struck later that same evening, while Thorin performed his nightly ablutions. Bilbo had espied the inkwell on the desk; of course! He could write!

 

No matter how much he tried, though, he could not grip the quill with his paws. It was very hard to balance on his hind legs. He had marginally better results by holding the nib between his teeth but it was still unwieldy at best.

 

Bilbo’s tail lashed to and fro, his mind racing, acutely missing fingers that would’ve held the nib easily. A cat with fingers, that was an odd image. He shook his head to dislodge the picture. He dragged a scrap of parchment (the taste was terrible) towards the bottle of ink as he thought.

 

Inspiration struck him like lightning; the inkbottle. His forepaw was too big to fit into it, so – with an inward surge of remorse – he tipped it onto its side. Bilbo wasn’t stupid, he did make sure that Thorin’s important documents were not close enough to take up the ink, though it did stain the corner of his scrap parchment.

 

Feeling quite pleased with himself, Bilbo dipped his paw into the puddle of ink and hoped that Thorin could read Common. Those of royal blood had lessons in that sort of thing, right?

 

Bilbo pressed his inky paw to the parchment, and then paused, belatedly wondering what he should write. “My name is Bilbo”? “I’m not a cat”? “I’m actually a Hobbit and am very sorry for not letting you know sooner, and I want to promise you that your trust in me is not misplaced because I’ll keep your confidence to my grave”?

 

He didn’t get to decide, in the end, because Thorin had rushed over and plucked him from the desk. Bilbo yowled in displeasure but Thorin was having none of it, chiding Bilbo like he was a _child_.

 

“Ink will make you ill. Not to mention you almost undid all of today’s work.” He’d already readied himself for bed, seeing as Bilbo was pressed up against a bare chest, his ink-soaked paw held away from both their bodies. Thorin looked at the spread of ink across his desk, decided that his work would indeed be untouched, and then whisked Bilbo into the bathroom.

 

What followed was a very thorough scrubbing, despite the ink only being on one paw. Bilbo made sure to demonstrate his displeasure. (Actual baths being better than _licking_ oneself clean notwithstanding.)

 

“Do not complain,” said Thorin, stern. “This is your own fault.” In spite of his reproach, he was very gentle. One hand spanned most of Bilbo’s underbelly, holding him up in the water as the basin was quite a bit deeper than Bilbo was tall. Thorin used his other hand to rub water into Bilbo’s light fur.

 

The circular motion of Thorin’s thumb and fingers was relaxing and enjoyable. This only heightened Bilbo’s annoyance given that his plan had been foiled and he should’ve been allowed to seethe at Thorin for as long as possible.

 

Except Thorin had arrived at the back of Bilbo’s neck, where he couldn’t quite reach to scratch, and it felt _amazing_. Bother this cat form. He’d not have been so easily appeased merely by being rubbed.

 

Bilbo was even more disgusted with himself when Thorin dried him off and his treacherous cat body arched into the contact of the rough towel. Since when did he like rough towels? “Ours in the Shire are better,” he said, quite forgetting that he couldn’t speak. “Soft and fluffy.”

 

“Mmhmm,” Thorin replied, and Bilbo’s heart leapt as – for a second – he thought Thorin understood him. His hope was dashed away when the Dwarf continued, “Bed as soon as I clear up your mess.”

 

Bah!

 

* * *

 

Bilbo made himself comfortable on the top shelf of the bookcase, gazing at the two Dwarves below with narrowed eyes.

 

When Thorin had talked about his nephews and their antics, Bilbo had expected them to be young children. Although Fíli and Kíli were both considered underage, they looked to be adults in their own right… even if they constantly involved themselves in mischief.

 

“I didn’t mean to do it!” Kíli pleaded. “It was an accident!”

 

Still annoyed, Bilbo swished his tail to and fro – the same tail that had been trod on by a heavy Dwarvish boot. It had _hurt_ , and it had startled him enough that he’d launched into the air and landed on Fíli. It had taken some time to disentangle his claws from Fíli’s tunic _and_ braids; once free Bilbo made his bid for freedom.

 

He’d surprised even himself by being able to perch so high. Though clearly he’d not jumped up in one go.

 

The dark-haired of the two muttered something in the Dwarvish tongue – which Bilbo still didn’t understand – and then yelped when Fíli smacked him.

 

“We’re supposed to practice speaking Common. You know this.”

 

Kíli frowned, rubbing his arm. “So what? Master Fragh isn’t here. It’s just you and me.” He glanced upwards, looking wary. “And the cat.”

 

At this, Bilbo bared his teeth and hissed. This was part of his latest plan. He would hiss, growl, or otherwise act displeased at every reference to his being a cat. It was a stretch, but there was still a chance that the Dwarves would figure out he wasn’t one.

 

“I said I was sorry!” Kíli’s eyes were wide and reminded Bilbo of his little cousins, ever innocent despite evidence to the contrary. “I didn’t see you.”

 

“I think some of Thorin’s temper has rubbed off on the cat,” Fíli said, grinning underneath his moustache. (It had to be mentioned that Bilbo had briefly entertained the thought of batting the silver beads at the ends of those braids.)

 

Espying a large gemstone (Thorin, who had explained some basics of mining terminology, would have called it raw), Bilbo got to his feet so he could swipe it off the shelf. Pleasingly, it managed to hit Fíli in the head before he caught it reflexively.

 

“I don’t think he likes being called a cat,” Kíli said, grimacing when Bilbo hissed again.

 

“Doesn’t like it? But he _is_ one.”

 

At this Bilbo growled. No, he _wasn’t_. Not originally anyway. Not for the first time, he wished that he could project his words and thoughts into the minds of the Dwarves; it would’ve saved everyone a lot of trouble, and he might have been changed back to a Hobbit by now.

 

“He might want a name,” Kíli suggested, after he’d stopped snickering at his brother and dodged the subsequent punch.

 

“Why?” Fíli’s expression suggested that he was merely humouring his brother’s peculiar way of thinking.

 

“Well, Thorin hasn’t given him one. And he’s been here, what, a month?”

 

Bilbo started. A month? Had it really been that long? He put his head on his paws unhappily, chest tight. Between enjoying Thorin’s company and trying to alert the Dwarves to his Hobbit origins, the days had just bled together and he’d lost track of time.

 

Still. A _month_. He wondered if anyone in the Shire was missing him.

 

“You forget, Kíli, that he’s the _only_ cat in the kingdom. It’s strange that Thorin even brought him here.” Fíli considered Bilbo, then smiled. “Though he is quite sweet.”

 

Bilbo-the-Hobbit would have flushed lightly at this comment. Bilbo-the-cat demonstratively turned his back to the two Dwarves, and did not jump down despite their cajoling (pleading turning into bribery with food). Bilbo absently wondered whether he’d have been able to talk to proper cats if there had been any in the Mountains.

 

He only deigned to leave his perch when Thorin arrived and boxed his sister-sons’ ears. As he purred in Thorin’s arms, he gave up his plan as a failure. He’d think of something else.

 

* * *

 

Thorin quite often returned to his quarters late, having kingly duties to attend to. Obviously Bilbo did not know what these duties entailed, but imagined meetings and audiences, overseeing the openings of mines, entertaining diplomatic parties, attending and throwing feasts, as well as periodical hand waving to adoring crowds.

 

He didn’t expect Thorin to arrive with one arm in a sling and the other over the shoulder of a thickset Dwarf. Thorin was limping, explaining the presence of the stranger. Bilbo watched worriedly as they slowly made their way to the bed, then jumped up as soon as Thorin was settled.

 

Just as he gently laid a paw on Thorin’s uninjured arm, Frerin burst in. He spared a glance for his brother before turning to the stranger. “How is he, Dwalin?”

 

“ _He_ is fine,” Thorin replied dryly. He was either on pain-numbing medicine or carefully masking his discomfort – since he wasn’t slurring his words or acting woozy, Bilbo assumed it was the latter. “Is Dís awake?”

 

“She was, for a few moments. Just enough to rant about shattering her sword.”

 

The new Dwarf – Dwalin – snorted. “Typical.” Then, as if sensing Bilbo’s gaze, he abruptly looked down at him. “Is this the creature Fíli and Kíli keep going on about?”

 

“Yes.” Thorin reached up to chuck Bilbo under the chin – he must have pulled or aggravated something, badly enough that he couldn’t hide his wince.

 

Bilbo yowled softly, using both his front paws to make Thorin return his arm to his side.

 

“It seems to have more sense than you, Thorin,” Dwalin said, grinning. Frerin laughed, and Thorin attempted to kick him.

 

Yowling again, Bilbo jumped up onto Thorin’s chest; he wasn’t a heavy weight, but maybe his presence would dissuade Thorin from getting up. He should have anticipated that Thorin would be stubborn and stupid when injured. Going by the expression on the Dwarf’s face, it wasn’t too farfetched to think he’d be doing everything _but_ resting in bed if Frerin and Dwalin weren’t there.

 

This theory was confirmed when Dwalin dragged a chair over to Thorin’s bed, ignoring the scowl levelled at him by his King. This scowl only widened when Frerin sat at the foot of the bed, well out of reach of any more kicks. “Don’t you two have someone else to mother?”

 

Frerin shrugged elegantly. “Víli is looking after our sister – though to be honest, he needn’t do so, considering she is not so stubborn as you in such circumstances.”

 

“I am merely wounded. Coddling is unnecessary.”

 

“Aye,” said Dwalin. He’d braced his boots on the edge of Thorin’s bed, and Bilbo winced inwardly as he pushed back, balancing the chair on two legs. “But you don’t listen to the healers and worsen your condition by being an idiot.”

 

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t gone off on your own,” Frerin added.

 

Bilbo noted that Thorin didn’t look repentant in the slightest. “I had no choice; the Troll would have breached our defences –”

 

A Troll? Thorin had taken on a _Troll_ by himself? Bilbo was amazed. The Dwarf was braver and more stupid than he’d thought possible.

 

“– still have no idea why there were so many Orcs this far west,” Frerin was saying. He’d pulled one knee to his chest, resting his boot on the coverlet (ugh!), leaning back on his palms. “We might need to send scouts; I fear they’ve found a stronghold nearby.”

 

“A day’s rest,” Dwalin said firmly. “Put those with the best eyes on the walls for now; moving out so soon is unwise.”

 

“You’re a better tactician than I.” Frerin let his head loll onto his shoulder, smiling lopsidedly at Thorin. “What say you, brother?”

 

Thorin pursed his lips, staring at the ceiling as he thought. “Two days.” He ignored the looks of surprise Dwalin and Frerin exchanged. “The Orcs will not be so thirsty for battle after their loss today.”

 

The three Dwarves continued talking about further battle tactics and other subjects that Bilbo was completely ignorant of. It was background noise to his ears as he lay on Thorin with his eyes only just slit open.

 

Thorin fell asleep first, likely thanks to his injuries. Frerin followed soon after, curling up with his feet hanging off the edge of the bed. Only Dwalin remained awake, having allowed his chair back into its intended position of all four legs on the floor.

 

Bilbo let off from his careful scrutiny of Thorin’s face – just to make sure that he was really asleep, that was all – and considered Dwalin. He was as tall as Thorin and as broad, the crown of his head shaved or naturally bald. The rest of his hair was brown, his eyes were blue, and what skin Bilbo could see was covered in chunky lines and symbols. They somehow looked more permanent than drawing with ink.

 

Dwalin held out one massive hand and – after gingerly inspecting its cleanliness – Bilbo hopped on. If he sat down and kept his paws close to his body and his tail curled around him, he fit neatly in Dwalin’s palm.

 

“Perhaps someone ought to teach you to carry a weapon,” Dwalin said, and oh, he certainly knew how to pet a cat. His strokes were long and slow and thorough, with _just_ the right amount of force. Bilbo purred.

 

He had to ask – quietly, given the sleeping brothers – why he’d need to handle a weapon. It seemed like an incongruous skill to have even if he’d had hands and fingers to even grip a weapon. Dwalin obviously didn’t understand his chattering and meows, but answered all the same.

 

“O’ course, you have your claws and teeth. Let’s hope that’ll be enough next time Thorin decides to dance with death.”

 

* * *

 

If there was one thing that Bilbo could appreciate about being turned into a cat, it was that he was very rarely bored. Coupled with his sharpened reflexes (also an advantage), Bilbo was far more active than he had been in Bag End. He’d been very comfortable with his life of leisure, slow days filled with good food and ale and pipe weed. He’d not been this energetic since his childhood, when he’d dreamed about having adventures.

 

Well, this certainly was an adventure, but Bilbo hadn’t yet decided whether it was a good one or not.

 

He was currently leaning towards the ‘good’ column, seeing as Thorin had just given him a bath. His honey-brown fur was fluffier than he would have liked, but as it meant he was more likely to be petted, Bilbo didn’t complain.

 

Thorin was on his bed, Bilbo laying half on his shoulder and half on the pillow. He had one of Thorin’s braids in his mouth, chewing distractedly and hoping that Thorin wouldn’t notice. Most of the beads and clasps in Thorin’s hair had been removed and placed on the dresser (the candlelight caught the silver and gold and gems, calling to Bilbo) so this was all the entertainment he had.

 

His tail swished and curled; Bilbo felt bizarrely satisfied when Thorin had to hold up a hand to prevent being hit in the face. He imagined that it felt like a feather against skin, and then couldn’t help but wonder if Thorin was ticklish elsewhere.

 

Bilbo stopped chewing, though the braid remained in his mouth, and wondered where _that_ thought had come from.

 

He certainly knew and accepted the fact that Thorin was attractive – for a Dwarf. He was straight-backed and proud, with a nose that could cut glass and a voice that could ensnare even the strongest of willpowers. At the end of the day when he finally pulled his boots and socks off, his bare feet were strange but simultaneously attractive.

 

Bilbo had also caught sight of a tattoo encircling one thick thigh – it had happened only _once_ , and he’d turned away as quickly as he could (not to say that he didn’t get an eyeful, and enough of one to conclude Thorin’s backside was as appealing as his bare chest).

 

Aside from all these promising physical attributes, Bilbo found that he found Thorin’s character pleasing as well. His cat form had granted him the advantage of immediately forming a relationship with Thorin, skipping any awkwardness or dislike. Bilbo could very well imagine Thorin becoming irritated at the fussy way he dressed and acted, just as he was irritated by Thorin’s absolute lack of tact.

 

This was an interesting scenario to consider. If he’d bumped into Thorin as a Hobbit, would they have been friends? He rather doubted it. Thorin would’ve likely helped him up with a curt and muttered apology before turning away and going about his business.

 

That rainy night seemed like a very long time ago. He’d lost count of the days again; cat minds seemed not to care about that sort of thing. With an internal shrug, Bilbo resumed his chewing. Whether or not he was half in love with Thorin was no consequence, seeing as the spell on him hadn’t broken – he found it extremely unlikely that Thorin would return the sentiment whatever shape Bilbo occupied.

 

“Get that out of your mouth,” Thorin grumbled, yanking his braid free. “I’d rather keep my hair.”

 

Not giving any attention at all to the lovely streaks of silver in Thorin’s hair, Bilbo huffed and stretched out a paw, resting it on one bearded cheek. The Dwarf merely snorted and petted it absentmindedly.

 

Bilbo would have to work to quash these stirrings before they became full blown _feelings_.

 

Didn’t stop him from selfishly curling up atop Thorin’s chest, though.

 

* * *

 

The library in the Blue Mountains was _huge_. Bilbo had never seen so many books and scrolls and parchments in one place. As with the rest of Dwarvish architecture, the ceilings were extremely high and the bookshelves stretched all the way up. Astounded, Bilbo watched as Dwarves with purple sashes around their waists (librarians, he guessed) scurried up and down said shelves with the help of a system of ropes and pulleys.

 

Their classification must have been very precise. Bilbo doubted that they’d be able to find _anything_ otherwise. He could imagine getting lost here, wandering round and round with nothing but books for company. This didn’t seem like too horrible a fate, but he would eventually become hungry; dying of starvation was _not_ something Bilbo wanted to happen. Ever.

 

He plodded towards the nearest shelf of books – which the lowest one, given his current height (trying to fetch any of the higher books would be difficult, destructive, and disrespectful). Bilbo was looking for anything written in Common; that way, instead of trying to write he could point to specific words to get his message across.

 

Making sure to avoid being trod on by careless boots, Bilbo skimmed the titles as he walked past. It was unsurprising and aggravating that he understood none of them. He went by shelf after shelf and grew ever frustrated. _Surely_ there were scholarly Dwarves who studied other cultures and languages? Wouldn’t they need reference books?

 

He was just about to give up – thinking that the books he was looking for were indeed located higher than he could reach easily – when he caught sight of ‘ _Tales of Nalir Sunbeard and Broll the Adept_ ’.

  

It didn’t look too heavy a book, so Bilbo decided that it would do. He would need to be quick, both in obtaining it and dragging it to Thorin. (Now that he thought about it, the chances of this being ignored by other Dwarves were not good… but he had to try.) He hooked his paws into the top of the spine, and pulled. Bilbo had almost levered the book out of position when he was suddenly picked up. His yelp turned into a short yowl, ears flat against his head; he’d been so _close_.

 

“Thought I saw you running around.” The Dwarf that had intercepted him had a kindly face and no moustache, though his white beard more than made up for the lack. He looked a little like Dwalin, and held Bilbo under his arms – forelegs –, leaving his back legs dangling. “You oughtn’t be here.”

 

He tried a plaintive meow, making his eyes as wide and pleading as he could manage. It didn’t work.

 

“The librarians will have your head and mine. And perhaps Thorin’s.”

 

As usual, Bilbo’s ears twitched at the mention of his Dwarf.

 

“Come along, back to the royal quarters with you.”

 

Bilbo found himself tucked under one of the Dwarf’s arms; it was not precisely uncomfortable, but it wasn’t as comfortable as being carried by Thorin. It was odd how he preferred Thorin over all the Dwarves he had met – or maybe not so odd, given that he spent most of his time with Thorin and that Thorin had taken him in the first place.

 

He’d grown to know Thorin better during his time in the Blue Mountains, grown to realise that Thorin was more than simple-minded as Bilbo first thought. Thorin was assertive, intelligent, and commanding at his best. At his worst, he was brash and tactless and rude. He clearly cared for his people despite his insecurities of not being a good enough leader. He loved his family, though his affection was subdued and subtle.

 

Yet Thorin gave the impression of being alone in this sea of people; shouldering the burdens of the world – how long had he kept his fears and worries bottled up? Bilbo was a new addition to Thorin’s life, and an outlet for those insecurities, which was promising since Thorin needed an outlet.

 

The fact remained that Thorin was confiding in a _cat_. And fine, the cat was actually a Hobbit, but only Bilbo was aware of that fact. He needed to regain his original shape, if only to knock some sense into Thorin’s thick skull.

 

Bilbo blinked when he abruptly found himself deposited in the receiving room in the royal quarters. The Dwarf who’d carried him bent down to pat him carefully on the head. Then, still smiling kindly, he straightened and left, closing the door securely. Bother.

 

The Dwarves were very unhelpful in that they didn’t leave convenient documents around – the books that Bilbo managed to find in the room were always in Dwarvish runes and therefore useless. There was no way to (literally) spell out his plight to Thorin and the rest, so he decided to abandon the idea too.

 

He considered scratching out a message with his claws was, but dismissed it quickly when the disadvantages outweighed the slim possibility of success. Firstly, Bilbo still could not control when his claws showed themselves. Secondly, he didn’t know what _to_ scratch – wanton destruction was frankly horrifying to Bilbo, compounded by his ignorance of what was important to Thorin and what wasn’t. Thirdly, he foresaw blunting or even tearing off his claws in the process and he obviously didn’t want to harm himself. He was a (mostly) sensible Hobbit, in spite of everything.

 

Morose, Bilbo sighed, staring into the fireplace.

 

Only moments later the door opened, admitting Thorin. On his heels were Frerin, his light-haired brother, and Dís, who could almost be mistaken for Thorin’s twin (it was their beards that set them apart). Frerin seemed to be in mid-rant, spitting out words that seemed to consist largely of consonants. Even if Bilbo had had knowledge of Dwarvish, he doubted he’d’ve been able to keep up with the speed of Frerin’s speech.

 

Thorin occasionally broke in with his own opinion. Bilbo questioned whether it was his bias that made the Dwarvish language sound rich and commanding when Thorin spoke it.

 

Of the three, only Dís was calm and silent. She sat by Bilbo, facing her brothers, dragging her fingernails through the fur on Bilbo’s chest between his front legs. Bilbo stretched to accommodate her, feeling most of his gloominess drain away. His spot on the carpet by the fireplace had him toastily warm; between that and Dís’ petting, he was practically a puddle of happy cat.

 

Would it really be so bad to stay like this?

 

Bilbo’s forehead crinkled as best it could. Of course it would be bad! He had a life in the Shire, a life as a _Hobbit_. He liked reading and writing, smoking and telling stories, having people over for tea and puttering about the garden – all good, respectable Hobbity activities. Normal Hobbits didn’t go around being transformed into animals and being adopted by Dwarves.

 

Normal Hobbits didn’t think that, all things considered, this was the best case scenario.

 

When Dís replied to Thorin, her hand stilled and Bilbo moved that so he could hide his face in her palm.

 

The thing was… if he’d not been turned into a cat, he’d never have met Thorin. Or any of the others. They were all kind to him – stepping on his tail aside. He had a roof (an entire mountain, to be exact) over his head, was kept fed, and was well cared for. If he and Thorin hadn’t crossed paths, would someone else have housed him? Would he have been a starving stray on the streets? Would he be dead?

 

Perhaps he should have tried to return to the Shire when he’d been shape-changed. It would have been a long journey, but at the end of it was his home. The Gamgees were kind to animals and would’ve likely kept him fed and safe – then should Gandalf have visited the Shire he could have changed Bilbo and he’d be able to recompense Hamfast and his family.

 

That choice was long behind him, however. Bilbo had allowed himself to grow close to Thorin, too close. He’d failed to nip his growing feelings in the bud, and now –

 

Now he wasn’t quite sure he _wanted_ to leave.

 

* * *

 

It was difficult to come to terms with his fate. Bilbo knew that he’d never see his family or friends again, that he’d never be able to stand or talk or act like a proper Hobbit, and that he’d never be known by his given name. He was essentially giving up his life to remain by the side of the Dwarf he loved – a Dwarf that would never know the real Bilbo.

 

Though Bilbo tried his best to hide his melancholy, it was evident enough that even _Thorin_ noticed.

 

The bed dipped as the King perched on the edge. He cautiously stroked Bilbo’s back, his hand big enough to span half the length of Bilbo’s cat-body. “Are you well, little one?” he asked, sounding unsure, if concerned.

 

Bilbo meowed in the negative (sounding more like “ _werh_ ” than a “meow”), though he was sceptical about Thorin’s ability to discern that he meant “No”.

  
Still, Thorin considered the lack of purring and concluded that Bilbo was unhappy. He slowly tucked Bilbo into the crook of one arm and moved to lie against the headboard of the bed (with his boots _on_ , to be noted). He let Bilbo make himself comfortable on his belly – which meant turning in a circle, three, four times – and then resumed his petting.

 

“I must confess that I can understand your poor mood. I had to deal with the party from Rivendell today; twelve Elves, which is twelve too many.”

 

Bilbo raised his head, tilting it to the side. He’d learned that Dwarves and Elves were not particularly enamoured with each other’s company, but had yet to see any with his own eyes. He wouldn’t be able to speak with them and learn more than his handful of Sindarin phrases, but at least he’d be able to satisfy his curiosity. Elves were supposed to be otherworldly and immeasurably wise – though by the way Thorin spoke of them, he obviously thought them arrogant and aggravating.

 

“Immortality does not spawn anything but contempt,” he said sourly, fingers momentarily pausing in their motion. “They treat us like we are lesser than them – as if our Maker should not have brought us into being.”

 

Was it experience or bias talking? Having never met an Elf, whether or not in the company of a Dwarf, Bilbo didn’t know what to think.

 

“Perhaps you should meet them,” Thorin said, and if Bilbo hadn’t known better, he’d’ve assumed Thorin had somehow read his mind. “It will be amusing to see them remain impassive when you claw them.”

 

Bilbo sniffed at this. He might have lived amongst Dwarves for upwards of a month (and he might be in love with one), but that didn’t mean he’d taken up their views and mannerisms. Their table manners – or lack thereof – were particularly distressing.

 

“No? You wouldn’t even do it as a favour to me?”

 

Unimpressed, Bilbo turned his face away from his Dwarf.

 

“Your temperament has been strange, these past few days – and I can’t even blame the Elves for it.” Thorin poked Bilbo in the side until he finally deigned to look up into pale blue eyes. “You haven’t even been eating as much as you usually do.”

 

Bilbo put his head down between his paws. He’d lacked appetite, was all. It wasn’t cause for concern, given that he was a reasonable size and weight as a Hobbit-turned-cat.

 

He was treated to a massive frown, all knitted brows and wrinkled forehead. “You aren’t ill, are you?” Thorin asked suspiciously. When Bilbo huffed, he broke into a grin, and Bilbo’s heart did a little flip.

 

Thorin rationed his smiles, reserving them for family and close friends (and, lately, Bilbo). Bilbo wished he wouldn’t do this, because smiling made Thorin… beautiful. It was amazing that a soft curve of thin lips could make Thorin so much more open and approachable, and it was amazing that he was one of the few permitted to bask in the sight.

 

“This would be easier,” said Bilbo, words turning into chirrups, “if you weren’t so… _you_.”

 

Humming in ‘agreement’, Thorin grazed one of Bilbo’s ears, seemingly amused by the way Bilbo would flick it. He felt relieved that while sensitive ears had carried over from his Hobbity characteristics, it didn’t present in the same way. (For general information, touching ears amongst Hobbits was wooing behaviour.) He was also relieved that he couldn’t blush.

 

“If only we could understand each other,” the Dwarf murmured, moving to scratch Bilbo’s cheek and flick his whiskers. “Then I could comfort you, as you have brought comfort to me.”

 

Bilbo wanted so badly to turn back into a Hobbit at that instant, just so he could throw his arms around Thorin’s neck and bury his face against his throat, and scold him for ever thinking that he wasn’t a comfort. Instead, all he could do was get to his feet. He pressed his paw to Thorin’s chest, as if to feel his heart beating. His own was fluttering against his ribcage.

 

“What’s wrong?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo sealed the distance between them, rasping his tongue against Thorin’s bearded chin.

 

“I love you,” he said. As always, he heard meowing instead of words, and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Thorin’s method of trying to cheer Bilbo up was to present him with a collar. It was made of a dark band of leather with a central strand of ‘mithril’ and studded with jewels the size of peas. They were deep yellow, almost amber, and Thorin seemed quite pleased when he fastened it around Bilbo’s neck.

 

Having decided that it was useless and tiring to mope around, Bilbo purred and twined himself around Thorin’s ankles (somewhat difficult, given his size and the size of Thorin’s boots), very pleased that this managed to widen Thorin’s smile.

 

Bilbo settled again into routine. He teased and was teased by Fíli and Kíli. He slept in Dís’ lap as ambassadors from other Dwarvish realms sought audience with her. He leapt out at Frerin to keep him on his toes and stole little things from Dwalin – Thorin’s forbidding cousin – just because he could.

 

He also spent as much time as possible with Thorin, but that went without saying.

 

Included in Bilbo’s routine was of course dinner. More often than not, Thorin took his meals in his rooms; when the food was sent up to his quarters, there was an extra plate of meat specially for Bilbo. Tonight it was lamb and it smelled delicious.

 

Despite good manners dictating otherwise, Bilbo did not wait for Thorin before starting to eat (although he did cast a guilty look towards the closed door that lead to the washroom). He was famished, not for any particular reason, but his stomach’s demands to be fed couldn’t be put off. At any rate, Hobbits worth their salt would say ignoring the rumblings of your tummy was very foolish indeed.

 

By now Bilbo had mostly gotten used to Dwarvish cooking. It didn’t compare to his father’s – no one had ever come close – but there was certainly enough variety to satisfy the fussiest of eaters. Bilbo thought that his increased ability to perceive smell might have contributed to this; most food carried the sharp tang of metal and he supposed that was to be expected since many Dwarves worked with metal in some form.

 

His dinner tonight was delicious, the meat practically falling off the bone. Bilbo thought he could taste a hint of apple and pear. It was lucky that he finished it off as quickly as he did, because when Thorin reappeared, he wore nothing but a towel around his waist. Again forgetting his manners, Bilbo stared with wide eyes. He licked his chops too, though he would never admit if it was because he’d finished dinner or because of the feast for his eyes.

 

“Greedy thing,” Thorin said, having noted Bilbo’s empty plate. Instead of selecting a pair of breeches and returning to the washroom to change, as was prudent, he dropped his towel.

 

Bilbo hurriedly put his paws over his eyes as best he could (it was a little difficult, having short legs and all). Thorin was comfortable with Bilbo's presence enough to abandon all propriety, as exemplified by the last time this had happened, but Bilbo would not take advantage of the situation even with a little voice in his mind suggesting otherwise. Somebody needed to hold on to common decency.

 

He could hear the rustle of cloth, but still kept his eyes shut. If he'd still been in Hobbit form (though, really, if that was true what would he be doing here with an undressed Thorin?), his cheeks would be hot and his face deep red.

 

In fact, he did feel a little warm. Maybe cats _could_ blush.

 

Bilbo was tapped on the head, quite rudely, prompting him to finally unshield his face. Thorin looked amused but - as a quick glance confirmed - now was clothed. A relief.

 

"You are odd," Thorin announced, scratching underneath Bilbo's chin. "It isn't like you go around in trousers and a weskit."

 

Bilbo, having stretched his neck for more scratching, decided not to be insulted or ashamed. He had gotten over this particular truth long ago, seeing as he had fur covering his entire body. (Were there cats that didn't have fur? Bilbo had never seen one before, and the image his mind supplied him with was decidedly strange.)

 

Thorin's scratching seemed to feel better than it ever had. Bilbo would have been more curious about this, but his thoughts were slow and muddled. The day had been longer than he thought if he was already sleepy.

 

It took Bilbo a moment to realise when Thorin pulled his hand away, and by the time he did he was already falling forward. He caught himself though, trying to shake off the increasingly jumbled way his brain was processing information. The light all around him seemed too bright suddenly, and somehow multiplied. It was like there were fireflies dancing in his vision. He blinked. The lights remained.

 

Thorin said something – he’d no idea what, though. To Bilbo it sounded like a low murmur. He tried to turn to face Thorin, but even that simple motion made his head swim. Maybe he’d eaten _too_ quickly, because now his stomach was churning. But was it really? It could’ve been just his imagination; his head certainly hurt enough for this to be the case.

 

Bilbo fell onto his side and upset Thorin’s goblet. Still able to see – but only just – he watched the progress of the ale across the table, watched it soak his fur. Couldn’t feel it.

 

The last thing he remembered was Thorin's worried expression, and hands cradling his body.

 

Then nothing.

 

* * *

 

Darkness.

 

Light.

 

Darkness again, but with voices. They bled together into a cacophony, thunder and screaming, and Bilbo was sure he shouted. The silence returned.

 

He dreamt of his parents. Of lonely nights in his home, of crackling fires and sweet pipe weed. Of soft sheets. Of rain. Of tea and jam and cream, of books and the scritch-scratch of a quill on parchment. Of the smell of ink.

 

Of silver strands through dark hair.

 

Dark hair.

 

Darkness.

 

* * *

 

When Bilbo woke, and stayed awake, he had a brief moment of panic when he couldn’t feel his tail.

 

His first attempt at opening his eyes was impossible. They felt heavy as lead and he sighed softly through his nose. He felt cold and thirsty and _odd_ , like something was missing. Try as he might, Bilbo couldn’t for the life of him figure out what that something was – he didn’t mind overly much, because at least that meant he could now think clearly.

 

What exactly had happened?

 

Bilbo considered all the information he had (not much). It was most likely that he’d been poisoned, though whether this was malicious or accidental hadn’t been established. Likely the poisoner had thought Thorin ate Bilbo’s share of food, or had poisoned all the food. He did not think anyone would go to the trouble to get _him_ poisoned. It might even have been a reasonable explanation.

 

His eyes finally deigned to open so he could look at the ceiling. There were no cobwebs to be seen, and no decorations save the carving of the support beams. He couldn’t make the exact detail of the carvings. He put it down to continued stress from being poisoned.

 

He did make out, though, that he had a nose if he crossed his eyes. Not an exciting prospect but for the fact that it wasn’t pink and had no whiskers at all.

 

Bilbo jolted up into seated position, wondering in the fact that _yes_ , _those were his hands_ and _yes, he was sitting_. His ribs and muscles and lungs protested this sudden movement, heart rate too fast, but he was back to his Hobbit shape. It’d been so long that he’d almost forgotten what his feet had looked like. He’d be able to return to the Shire now, after he settled his debts and was given proper directions.

 

He’d be able to return to the Shire. Bilbo sagged, staring down at his hands on his lap. He’d be able to _leave_.

 

Someone cleared their throat. Someone with a familiar voice, one that Bilbo could immediately pick out even in the dark. It was _not_ dark, even without his cat eyes, and he was able to discern who was keeping him company.

 

Thorin sat by the bedside, face unreadable.

 

“So,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> \- upon writing, I'm not sure Thorin is completely in character, but I'm really tired and don't want to change it  
> \- Thorin speaks in Common with Bilbo because he's used to it. I got Fili and Kili to do the same under the guise of their tutor asking them to practice it. Most other conversations between Dwarves are in Khuzdul, and when they're not it was because I wanted you guys and Bilbo to be able to understand.  
> \- there are a couple of easter eggs if you read closely (some especially for alkjira)  
> \- no I don't know how that much angst got in  
> \- for once it wasn't Gandalf at fault ha ha  
> \- Frerin lives because  
> \- re the delicate subject of _private business_ , I've checked and you can apparently train cats to use the toilet. So Bilbo uses the water closet of ME without too much trouble. Even though he's quite small. Ssh.  
> \- I literally couldn't work on my Big Bang because of this fic  
> \- a lot of this story doesn't make sense but please bear with me because  
> \- I am really, really tired
> 
>  
> 
> Okay. It's a cliffhanger. I know. But I'm burned out by this fic, and April is fast approaching. Big Bang needs my attention now.
> 
> You'll get your second chapter. After.


	2. Red and Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returned to Hobbity form, Bilbo has questions to answer. Things were simpler when he'd had four legs instead of two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goodness, this took a long time - thanks to a combination of writer's block, and then the fact that it didn't want to end properly. damn fic. damn characters *shakes fist*
> 
> thanks to alkjira, as always, for putting up with all whining and for reading through. 
> 
> all remaining mistakes are my own.

Beyond Thorin and his seat was a simple curtain that had been pulled around Bilbo’s firm bed, presumably blocking them from anyone else in the room. Healing wing, most likely. There was silence beyond the cloth and no light peeked through the inch high space between the bottom of the curtain and the floor. Thorin was instead lit by a single lantern on the wall.

 

Bilbo wished for a blanket or loose covers to hide behind, but he only had the mattress and pillow at hand. There was a sharpness to Thorin’s gaze, though, that suggested hiding would have been useless. It was either the scrutiny that dried all possibility of speech from Bilbo or the fact that he hadn’t actually spoken for however long he’d been a cat.

 

“You are a Shapeshifter,” Thorin quietly said, “and perhaps a spy.” He was dressed simply in trousers with undershirt and overtunic, the sleeves of the latter pushed to his elbows. Scratching a forearm absently, he continued, “It’s even been suggested that you are a thief.”

 

Trying to protest, Bilbo opened his mouth and choked on his own spit. His throat was dry as dust – swallowing only managed to worsen his coughing, sides and spine complaining as he hunched in on himself. He raised one hand, pressing against his mouth as if it would help calm him, breath coming in quick and shallow through his nose.

 

Movement caught his eye. Thorin reached out towards the table, using a single finger to nudge a small stone cup towards him.

 

Bilbo took small sips gratefully. A hysterical thought snaked through his mind; he’d half expected milk instead of water, half expected to lap it up instead of drinking normally. He couldn’t put his ears back flat against his head or twitch his whiskers or lash his tail. It was as strange as manoeuvring four legs had been all that time ago. He lowered the cup, coughing only once. His shoulders relaxed marginally.

 

Thorin settled back in his seat, stretching a hand outwards, uncurling his fingers and inviting Bilbo to explain himself.

 

“I’m not –” He cleared his throat. “Not any of the things you’ve called me. My, my name is Bilbo. I’m a simple Hobbit, that’s all.”

 

“That much is obvious.” Pale eyes darted towards Bilbo’s feet. “We may not have dealings or treat together, but we have seen some of you about.”

 

“Then surely you’d know we’re incapable of – of stealing and spying! Hobbits just don’t _do_ that.” Hobbitlings occasionally pinched fruits or vegetables, and eavesdropping was expected of certain gossips, but it was unlikely that they were born of active malice.

 

“Those who are often overlooked make the best assassins and spies.” He waved his hand to forestall another protest; Bilbo noticed a new ring on Thorin’s littlest finger but his cattish urge to jump on shiny things had thankfully passed. “But continue.”

 

Bilbo looked into his cup, marvelling quietly at the way he could tap his fingers against it. “I meant to visit relatives, but there was an accident with the cart I was riding on, leading to an unscheduled shop in the town you found me in.” At that point, his biggest worry had been the inconvenience of an extra day added to his travel time – unaware that bumping into the wrong person would lead him here, explaining everything to the King that had taken him in.

 

“I found you as a cat, not as you are now.”

 

He may have been aware of Thorin’s impatience, had seen it for himself, Bilbo still glared. “Are you going to keep interrupting, or will you allow me to finish?” He watched Thorin’s brow furrow before the full horror of his curt words struck him. He tried to pull his knees up slightly, but couldn't - not that feet flat on the bed would help him make a quick escape. “I’m sorry, I –” _I’d just gotten used to ‘speaking’ my mind with you._ “I didn’t mean to say that.”

 

Thorin jerked a nod, frown still in place. Bilbo could only hope that his blunder wouldn’t be held against him.

 

“I was turned into a cat by a Wizard… or I think a Wizard. She did have the staff and the hat and the robes, just like Gandalf.” He wasn’t too sure if mentioning the Grey Wizard would carry any consequence – he could be unknown to the Blue Mountain Dwarves – but swallowed and moved on. “It must have been an accident; she seemed unaware of my presence. I should’ve chased after her.” If he had, he wouldn’t have been so far from home. And he’d not be in love with a Dwarf who didn’t trust him.

 

Bilbo rubbed his eye wearily, brushing his curls behind one ear before palming the back of his neck. His skin felt strange, like ill-fitting clothing. And speaking of, he was in the same blouse and trousers, even if they were now marginally looser. His weskit was nowhere to be found; hopefully the Dwarves hadn’t thrown it away.

 

“It took me – I was distressed to find myself a cat. Unsurprising, I’m sure. None of the people on the street gave me a second glance because I was just an animal – a tiny one at that.” Even returned to his body he was small; it was quite apparent that Thorin was bulkier and taller than him. “The rain didn’t help matters – I just wanted to find a dry place, with food, and wait out the spell. But then…”

 

“Then I found you.”

 

He nodded, quickly following it with, “I swear, I had no idea who you were, beyond being a Dwarf.” And a simple one at that, but less said about that the better. He bit his lip. “Tho – I mean, Your Majesty –”

 

“Thorin will do,” was the curt reply. “Considering all you’ve seen and heard.”

 

Bilbo winced. “I – I didn’t know your name, or that you were a King – only that you were kind to me.”

 

Thorin scratched his chin with blunt fingernails, scraping against his beard. “But this doesn’t explain why you made no effort to return to your home. You seemed quite happy to stay here.”

 

“How was I supposed to do that?” he snapped. “I couldn’t traverse that distance by myself and without supplies. That would’ve been difficult enough if I’d been normal-sized, but as a cat? You’re well aware of how small I was – how small I am.” Bilbo shifted, wanting to cross his legs, but they felt too heavy. He lifted the cup with shaking hands and took another drink of water. There was no way to know how long he’d been ‘asleep’ – he wasn’t sure if Thorin would tell him – but his mind and body were tired. Tired as if he’d been pulled back from the edge of death.

 

“You tried to tell us,” Thorin said slowly. Horror crept across his face, injecting his blank expression with emotion. His eyes, open wide, were particularly blue. “You tried to tell _me_ , but I didn’t –”

 

Bilbo reached out to Thorin without thinking. The sight of his own hand made him stop. Fingers. Not a paw. His touch wouldn’t be welcomed anymore, whether or not he wished to provide comfort. It was safer to return to holding the cup. “It wasn’t – _isn’t_ your fault. You could no more read my thoughts than I could project them.”

 

“And your behaviour – hiding your face when I –” Thorin stopped when Bilbo dropped his gaze again, blushing. “I see. At least I was afforded some dignity.”

 

Silence dropped between them like a winter blanket. An apology seemed cheap and inadequate; Bilbo knew he wasn’t to blame, but Thorin had spent many hours confiding in what he had thought was a cat. He couldn’t fault Thorin for feeling like his privacy had been stripped from him. No pun intended.

 

Finally Thorin sighed. “I believe you.”

 

“You do?” Bilbo looked into the face he had come to know and love, searching for and finding the truth in Thorin’s words. He did not see a smile, however.

 

“Speaking with you… it’s clear that you are no spy.” It was impossible to tell from his tone whether this was a veiled insult or just Thorin’s usual bluntness. “Even so, you have been privy to more information than an outsider should. What’s to guarantee your silence?”

 

Bilbo almost laughed. “I have no one to tell!” He hid a few more coughs in a palm. “Not only would no one believe me, Hobbits just aren’t concerned about Kings or Mountains – or Dwarves, for that matter.” He leaned forward to illustrate his sincerity. “They – that is to say, _we_ – are simple folk. We’re not meant to travel far, or to have adventures. We stay in our homes, we lead our quiet lives, we keep out of the way. That’s how it’s always been.” And… that was how it always would be.

 

“Still. I have more than my welfare to see to. You are well aware of my position.”

 

And well aware of how Thorin shouldered the burden of that position with as little help as possible. Bilbo kept silent.

 

Thorin reached into a pouch on his belt, withdrawing a handful of gleaming gold coins and glistening jewels. “Will these hold your tongue?”

 

 _What_? “No, I – I’m the one who owes _you_!” Bilbo knew very well that he should pay Thorin more than the small fortune being offered to him now. “Not only for the food you gave me, but the cost of keeping me in such comfort and… and just keeping me.”

 

“You want to pay me?” Thorin scoffed when he was given an encouraging nod. “Why should I be paid for doing what is right?”

 

Bilbo swallowed. Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised; hadn’t he seen and experienced Thorin’s kindness firsthand? “What other way can I thank you?” he asked, replacing the cup on the table. He inched towards the edge of the mattress. “Please just – just name what you want and I will –” Bilbo’s words cut off just as his left foot landed on the cold floor – past the sudden pain he could feel it shaking like jelly instead of holding his weight. He put a hand to his suddenly-spinning head and saw swirls of colours from behind his eyelids.

 

Hands – Thorin’s hands – pushed at Bilbo’s shoulders, gently but firmly pressing him back against the pillow. “I want you to rest. You have been poisoned.”

 

He waited for the nausea to calm before opening his eyes. “I figured that for myself, thank you. But I was a cat. Surely there wasn’t much poison involved.”

 

Raised eyebrows. “There was enough in that plate to kill a Dwarf – and we are a very hardy race. I am told that you are lucky to have survived.” He returned to his chair, releasing Bilbo’s shoulders. “This, I think, is another reason to recompense you.”

 

“No, I – it’s really not necessary. You didn’t know that would happen.” Perhaps the magic that had transformed him – and kept him transformed – had played a part here. It may have used itself up trying to keep him alive, thus returning him to his original shape… if that was indeed how magic worked.

 

Bilbo frowned. _Enough in that plate to kill a Dwarf._ “So you’re saying there was enough poison to kill… you?”

 

“I am King.”

 

“But –”

 

Thorin stood. “You should rest. I have overtired you.”

 

There was a protest on the tip of his tongue but Bilbo couldn’t deny that his eyelids felt heavy. They slipped closed without his consent; he barely felt the press of Thorin’s hands, again pushing down. It was likely this fatigue was the cause of the ridiculous wish for Thorin to stroke his fingers through Bilbo’s fur.

 

Silly. He didn’t have fur anymore.

 

* * *

 

The rain was unrelenting.

 

Bilbo shook his head. It was a more violent action than he expected, but propelled most of the rainwater all the same, spraying it this way and that. He darted under shelter, shivering and miserable.

 

He was alone. Without a coin to his name, staying at an inn was not an option. Not that he’d really be allowed inside in his current state. Asking for help from a kindly soul didn’t seem likely either – at this time and in this weather, there were no kindly souls to be seen. Best wait out the rain and see what to do. If there _was_ anything he could do.

 

Now that he had time to think, Bilbo concentrated on his strange new… appendages.

 

The whiskers weren’t too bad, even if most Hobbits never had to manage those. The claws were out of his control – or he didn’t have them – but the tail… The tail was strange. It put him off balance yet in balance at the same time – all depending on whether he actively tried to control it or let it do as it pleased.

 

He twitched it now, absently, as he thought.

 

The possibilities of this spell’s duration ranged from hours to the rest of his life (the latter undesirable whether this meant the lifespan of a cat or a Hobbit). Bilbo could do nothing – he couldn’t think of anything to do, that was – so the logical conclusion was to wait. And wait. And –

 

His shelter was abruptly removed. Fat droplets of rain splashed down. Bilbo barely registered the Man standing over him before being kicked out onto the street.

 

There was no reprieve there. He tried to avoid as many boots as he could, but there was always one to catch him in the side or on his head, always one to step on his tail. No matter how close he was to escape, he was still battered from all sides until bruised and hurting all over.

 

Vision swimming and half obscured by mud, Bilbo limped away as fast as he could, holding his front paw up to his chest. Each step jarred, pain shooting through his whole body – but he was close. So close to reaching a stationary cart; temporary safety, but safety nonetheless.

 

Gravel crunched. Bilbo flinched even before he saw the foot coming towards him.

 

Bilbo looked around, squinting in a sudden blackness. There was no rain here – wherever here was. It didn’t feel like a dream but what else could it be? More magic?

 

“Who are you?” someone asked.

 

There was now a person, a Dwarf standing over him. His face was stern and handsome, his voice deep and melodic. Both were familiar to Bilbo, but he could not remember a name.

 

“Who are you?” the Dwarf asked again, tone insistent. His heavy brow was furrowed.

 

Bilbo looked down at himself; muddy fur, short legs, limp tail. How was he expected to answer when he was still a cat?

 

“Who are you?” The Dwarf loomed over him. There was crown on his head, made of silvery metal almost white, dripping yellow- and amber-coloured gems. “Who are you?” he thundered. “Who are you?”

 

“My name is –” Bilbo cut himself off at the sound of his own voice. Those were words, actual speech that cats couldn’t form. He looked down again and saw his true body. Tried to stand. “I’m Bilbo. Can’t you see I’m a Hobbit?”

 

Despite Bilbo having returned to his normal shape and size, the Dwarf seemed larger than before. He was clearly angry. He also ignored Bilbo’s answer, continuing to ask his question, voice raised to a scream: “Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?”

 

Still kneeling, Bilbo put his hands over his ears – only to discover that they were furry, though still pointed. His hands were paws. His words unintelligible meowing.

 

Impossible as it sounded, the Dwarf was growing. Gold and gems fell from his mouth as he spoke, clinking into gleaming piles by his boots. They threatened to swamp Bilbo; he jumped out of the way, but not quickly enough to avoid one or two coins that _burned_ on contact with his body. He fell.

 

Again returned to Hobbit form, naked and shivering, Bilbo winced at the red welts on his skin. They became larger – as did the Dwarf – spreading and spreading until every part of him was covered. Every movement, even as slight as breathing, tore through him as exquisite agony. More treasure fell on him. More pain.

 

There was no sky or ground in this infinite darkness, but this Dwarf filled all of it.

 

Thorin, Bilbo remembered. King Thorin. That was his name.

 

“Please! Thorin, please!” He did not hope his words were understandable – his mind was too frantic in the face of the same question shrieked over and over and over. “You know me! You know who I am!”

 

There was silence, finally. Even the shifting of the treasure had stopped. Thorin stood tall and steadfast and forbidding as he stared down, down, down at Bilbo’s tiny body. His previously dark clothes now shone gold and silver, bright. Almost too bright.

 

Bilbo dry sobbed, but his relief all too soon bled into horror. His hands were normal but for the razor-sharp claws that topped each finger. His feet was any respectable Hobbit’s, thankfully. His long tail curled around his body. He bent forward, clutching at his shoulders, uncaring at the ten separate pinpricks of pain. “I’m Bilbo,” he whispered, “Bilbo Baggins. I’m your – your friend.” But was he really?

 

The Dwarf was not impressed by this answer. He smiled though, mouth wide enough to swallow Bilbo whole, cat or Hobbit. He leaned down ponderously, like a Giant.

 

Bilbo stared back up at him, terrified.

 

“You are…” Thorin abruptly straightened. “You are no one to me.” He raised his boot, and Bilbo hardly had the will or time to cringe before –

 

* * *

 

Bilbo jolted upwards and awake.

 

He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his quickened heartbeat, sucking in his quickened breaths. He’d been sleeping. There was no one about and no immediately apparent noise – the fright had to have come from his own mind.

 

He tried to hold the dream, but all the half-formed images dissipated between one and the next. That might have been for the best – if the nightmare had been shocking and/or distressing enough to wake him, he likely didn’t really want the details.

 

Someone pushed the curtain aside. Bilbo caught a row of mostly empty beds and lamps bright with light – but then the heavy cloth fell into place. He blinked.

 

“What’s happened, laddie?” The Dwarf had grey hair with a twisty beard, and an angry face. He held up an ear trumpet made of brass – gold maybe – and had a band of red cloth around that arm, just above his elbow. There was a matching one on his other arm, this white and embroidered with silver.

 

Bilbo started when the Dwarf snapped his fingers.

 

“Did you hear me? Did something happen?”

 

“No, I –” He paused to swallow. “I’m fine.”

 

The Dwarf – and, he assumed, healer – continued frowning. “You cried out in your sleep. Are you in pain?”

 

“I’m…” Bilbo quickly inspected himself, but there wasn’t anything that could cause enough pain to wake him up so suddenly. Cautious and unsure, he said, “I don’t think so.”

 

“You don’t ‘think so’,” the healer repeated. “You’re either in pain or you’re not, lad. Which is it?”

 

“More… weak, than in pain.” He tried to smile. “I think I’ll be just fine.”

 

“That is my choice to make.” Finally the Dwarf cracked a smile, making him instead warm and friendly. “I am Óin. Head healer of this particular ward.” He bobbed his head in a quick bow. “But for now you seem well enough, considering.”

 

He needn’t have sounded so surprised. Bilbo frowned. Why _did_ he sound surprised? “Considering what?” he asked.

 

“You’re tiny,” Óin replied without preamble. “Tinier when you a wee kitty, but still tiny. There was enough poison in each plate of food – and in the ale – to kill someone twice your current size.” He looked disapproving, as if Bilbo should’ve somehow realised this. “And when we found out which poison had been used… well, no one thought you’d be alive.”

 

Despite his better judgement, Bilbo’s curiosity was piqued. “Which poison was it?”

 

“You will not know its name.” Óin fiddled with a strange length of chain; its purpose was revealed when he threaded his ear trumpet on it, then fastened the whole ensemble on his head so he could hear without losing the use of one hand.

 

 _Ingenious_ , Bilbo thought. Though it begged the question why he hadn’t used it earlier, while tending to the other occupants of the ward.

 

“I’m not one to suffer through whinging while I work.” He’d caught Bilbo’s look at his trumpet-chain arrangement. “But I have the hope that Hobbits are more sensible than Dwarves. About their health, at any rate.” This last was muttered into his beard, but Bilbo did not comment.

 

“Where did the poison come from, then?” he asked instead. “If I don’t know its name.”

 

“In some of the deeper caves there is a fungus that grows in cracks in the rock.”

 

He frowned. “You mean mushrooms.”

 

“Fungus,” Óin said. “Do your arms feel stiff?”

 

“Yes, a little, but –”

 

“The Dwarves responsible for the poisoning have admitted to finding this fungus and carefully scraping it off the wall.” Óin had taken Bilbo’s hand in both of his, flexing and extending each finger.

 

Bilbo hid his tiny winces, watching as Óin moved up to his wrist and then elbow. He’d been bedridden for – well, some time. Awake for about a day. Why did his muscles ache? He hadn’t been carrying heavy loads, even as a cat.

 

“It’s then refined into a black powder; easy to transport, easy to put into food and drink.” He started on Bilbo’s other arm, movements brisk and efficient. “Easy to kill –”

 

“Ow!” Bilbo tried to pull back, but Óin’s hand was tight around his forearm.

 

“That’s the sprain,” he sighed. Catching Bilbo’s expression, he went on. “Poison.”

 

“How –” Flexing his fingers wasn’t too bad, but clenching them started a dull ache up his forearm. Bilbo gritted his teeth. “How does poison sprain my wrist? I thought they just… killed.”

 

From what he could remember his four legs were unsteady and then unable to move. But perhaps those memories couldn’t be fully trusted – after all his head had felt stuffed with overlarge pillows, dizzy just before all went black. What exactly had happened after?

 

“You were –” Óin made a general wave in Bilbo’s direction – “in this shape by the time I arrived – and by then you’d started flailing and twitching so we were more interested in keeping you still than puzzling over your feet. Didn’t want you to break any bones.”

 

“That… that happens?” Bilbo asked weakly. Suddenly the pain in his wrist faded into the periphery of his senses.

 

“It can. You’re very lucky.”

 

“If I was lucky I’d not have been poisoned in the first place.” And he’d not have been turned into a cat or fallen in love with Thorin. Yes. Lucky.

 

Óin snorted. “You could’ve had a quick and clean death. That is a gift to all – whether a warrior or not.”

 

Bilbo was most definitely not a warrior. Shirefolk didn’t bother with that sort of thing – the Hobbitry-in-arms existed largely in history – and deaths were usually due to illness or old age (or the rare drowning). It was entirely possible that people at home considered him dead, but even then they’d not think it a gift, even if it had been fast.

 

“What’s your name, lad?”

 

Oh. That was right; he could speak with people now. “Bilbo Baggins.”

 

“Bilbo?”

 

“Yes, that’s… that’s right.” He couldn’t articulate how much of a relief it was to hear his name from someone else’s mouth, only that it prickled his eyes with tears.

 

Óin nodded. He’d moved nearer to the end of the bed, hovering by the Hobbit’s knees. “I need you to stay calm, Bilbo. This may hurt.” Then he reached for Bilbo’s lower leg.

 

Whether the warning enhanced Bilbo’s ability to feel pain, it certainly demonstrated the perfect use of understatement. ‘Hurt’ was better described as _agony_ , stemming from Óin’s gentle grip on his ankle and bursting up his body to make his jaw ache. Bilbo’d automatically pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle any cries but that mightn’t be enough and wouldn’t be enough to halt his rising bile, especially if Óin didn’t stop putting pressure on –!

 

Though he could see that the Dwarf had stepped away, the pain remained, if muted and hunched over his shoulders in preparation to strike again. Bilbo concentrated on breathing.

 

“Sorry, lad. That’s going to take some time to fix.”

 

He swallowed the sharp taste in his mouth. “What – what was _that_?” He’d lowered his hand to his lap. It was shaking. “Poison again?”

 

“Aye.”

 

“Did I… did I break it?”

 

“If you did it would’ve been simpler. No.” Óin circled the bed and reached for Bilbo’s right leg. (It was with immense relief that there was only stiffness here, not pain.) “This is directly caused by the poison. It kills you by spreading and sinking into your insides,” he said, tone casual, “turning your blood to jelly and bones to water.”

 

“From what we can tell, it’s only affected the one leg. It’ll heal, but slowly.” He shook his head, straightening after wiggling Bilbo’s big toe. “The worst poison ever seen in our history, and they tried to give it to our King. Not a pretty death, all in all,” Óin said.

 

 _Not a pretty_ –? After all that, Bilbo’s stomach was churning with unease. He felt rather pale.

 

The curtain lifted again, bringing in a louder bustle of the healing wing. Bilbo caught a sharp cry from a Dwarf beyond the curtain before being distracted. Fíli and Kíli had stepped in, staring with wide eyes at Bilbo. Unsure how to react, he stared back.

 

They looked exactly as he remembered: one light-haired and the other dark; one with proudly beaded hair and moustache and the other free-haired and scruffy; one with blue eyes and the other brown – but both full of mischief. The only real difference was that they seemed smaller – because he himself was bigger, he supposed (though Kíli was still the taller of the two brothers).

 

“Close that curtain,” Óin said crossly, “or leave now.”

 

Fíli obligingly let the curtain fall from his grip. Kíli pushed his lower lip into a pout. He started to speak in Dwarvish but cut himself off – either because he (and Fíli) still needed to practice Common or because Bilbo wasn’t allowed to even hear the language. “We just wanted to see the Hobbit, is all.”

 

“And ask questions,” his brother added over a reproachful look. “There’s hardly any point in standing here and gawping like a moth at the sun.”

 

“You’re doing that anyhow.”

 

Bilbo dropped his gaze. He didn’t want to answer questions. He wasn’t ready to answer questions. The discomfort in his belly caused by Óin’s narrative was joined with unease and fear. After being turned into a cat, after losing the trust of the Dwarf he loved, after being poisoned, after almost losing a leg… after all that, surely he deserved to be left alone.

 

He didn’t want questions.

 

“I don’t need you to aggravate him.” Óin discreetly winked when Bilbo glanced up at him. He raised his voice over Fíli’ and Kíli’s protests. “No. The rest of Middle Earth doesn’t cater to your whims. Go. You can disturb him after he’s had some rest.”

 

* * *

 

The brothers were as single-minded as ever, visiting Bilbo the very next day.

 

He could only assume that Óin was either busy or not in the ward; the healer that had seen to him earlier was a stranger. She’d not given her name, instead forcing medicine onto him. She’d called it medicine, for all that it’d looked like silvery powder that she poured into weak ale. He’d been told that it was necessary despite its disgusting taste, and that soup would follow.

 

What followed the soup were Fíli and Kíli.

 

“Why are you so small?”

 

Bilbo wanted to snort – didn’t, though, taking into account the meat in his mouth. He’d thought that there would be more… weighty questions. Perhaps they would come later. “I’m only a little shorter than you are,” he said mildly. Less broad and less beardy, too.

 

“A little shorter than Fíli, you mean. A lot shorter than me.”

 

Fíli reached over and flicked Kíli’s ear with the practiced ease of an older sibling. “Brat.” He’d sat at the foot of the bed, away from Bilbo’s injured leg thanks to the admittedly ample space between Bilbo’s feet and the edge of the mattress (the bed was, after all, designed to fit even the tallest of Dwarves – but again, Bilbo was not _so_ short). “Why are your feet so hairy?”

 

He chased a piece of meat. “Yours aren’t?”

 

Fíli raised his eyebrows. “Certainly not like that. We’d need bigger boots.”

 

“Or shave it all off.”

 

“Like you shaved off your beard?”

 

Kíli could not physically retaliate as he’d move to perch on the bedside table. Instead he scowled at Fíli. “I’ll shave your head if you don’t shut up.”

 

Thinking about the horror of shaving one’s feet, Bilbo wasn’t paying attention to this tiff. There’d always been stories about Hobbits leaving home and shearing the hair off their feet so as to blend in amongst Men, hiding pointy ears behind long curls. And while Bilbo had always dreamed of adventures, he could not imagine wanting to hide his identity so thoroughly. Having hair on the tops of his feet was just part of being a Hobbit. He told this to the brothers when they finally stopped sniping at each other.

 

“Aye but what is a Hobbit?” Fíli asked.

 

“We’ve never seen one before.” Kíli hugged his knee to his chest, having braced his heel against the table’s edge. (What was it with Dwarves and putting their feet on furniture?) “Not before you.”

 

Bilbo tried to discreetly wipe a drop of soup from the corner of his mouth, yearning for a proper handkerchief. “Well, Hobbits are… We’re just simple folk. Hobbits love sunshine and all things green and growing, not to mention food and ale and pipe weed.” Bilbo sighed a little, thinking of the Shire’s rolling hills and dipping valleys, the green grass and the blue skies and the white clouds, the bright colours of the flowers and Hobbity clothes. He missed home terribly, but it wasn’t quite the time to brood. He rallied. “We keep to ourselves and don’t bother people… and they don’t bother us.”

 

“Hobbits sound boring,” Kíli declared.

 

“Thank you.” He was amused more than insulted, especially when horror dawned on Kíli’s face.

 

“No, I don’t mean – it’s just that, how are you supposed to see the world and go on –” He broke off, frowning at his brother. “What’s the word?”

 

“Adventures?” Bilbo suggested. His laugh was only a tiny bit bitter. “Respectable Hobbits don’t.”

 

“But you did,” Fíli pointed out. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be talking with you.”

 

He put his bowl down. “I was going to visit my cousins in –”

 

“Ahh,” Kíli said knowingly, “and then you changed into your other shape and got stuck, and that’s when Thorin found you.”

 

“No.” Bilbo frowned. “No, I didn’t change into ‘another shape’, I was turned into a cat.” It was an important distinction.

 

The lads stared at each other, and then at him. “I thought all Hobbits can turn into animals?” Fíli ventured.

 

Bilbo fought the urge to bare his fangs and hiss – not least because he no longer had fangs. “ _No_. A Wizard did it, entirely without my permission.”

 

“But… we thought that you wanted to come here.” Both of them looked genuinely upset at the possibility that Bilbo hadn’t; blue and brown eyes wide and sad.

 

“I didn’t –” He sighed. “I was brought here by… by your uncle. It’s not that I didn’t grow to like the Blue Mountains and grow to, um, like some of you but I didn’t know who he was and where he was taking me.”

 

Silence dropped and Bilbo took the opportunity to finish his cold soup. It was thick and nutty with a softly chewy texture quite unlike any pottage he’d experienced before. The healer had called it ‘lentil soup’, so perhaps lentil was the chewy component, rather than a type of meat as he’d earlier assumed.

 

He’d like to ask Óin about it, if the chance presented itself.

 

Kíli cleared his throat. “Could you understand us, when you were a not-Hobbit?”

 

Odd. “So long as it was Common, yes – just as I can understand you now.”

 

The answer brought colour into Kíli’s cheeks. “So you understood that conversation about –”

 

 _Ah_. “Yes,” Bilbo said quickly, to spare the Dwarf any more embarrassment.

 

Fíli had other ideas, grinning wide. “What conversation? Why wasn’t I there?”

 

“It’s nothing to do with you.”

 

“Oh, come along Kíli, I’m your brother. You’re supposed to tell _me_ everything, not an animal!”

 

“I resent being called an animal,” was the sharp interruption. Both turned to stare (again) at Bilbo.

 

“Well you were one, for a bit –”

 

“Not your fault, we know –” Kíli poked in, as Bilbo opened his mouth.

 

Fíli nodded. “But it was long enough that Thorin became used to you being around. I think he liked it. Usually it’s hard for him to, to sustain – sustain? –” (Kíli nodded) “– a slightly cheerful mood.”

 

“Used to be about two or three times a month, but this went on and on with only a few grumpy days.” He crinkled his nose. “Now he’s prickly as… a prickly thing. Natrolite needles, maybe.”

 

“Good example.”

 

“I thought so too.”

 

Bilbo scrutinised his hands in his lap, studying the way his right wrist was just that bit swollen compared to the left, anything but looking up at Fíli and Kíli. He certainly wasn’t listening to them, oh no, because if he had he’d surely be feeling all kinds of upset. Was it strange to feel guilty for being poisoned and no longer being the cat Thorin trusted?

 

He huffed. It was strange as Thorin trusting a cat enough to affect his mood, surely.

 

“You should stay here,” Kíli said suddenly.

 

Bilbo swallowed. “Here in the ward?” he asked, knowing full well what Kíli meant.

 

“No, here in the Mountains.” Fíli put his palm down on the mattress. “With us. Well, with Thorin, specifically, but you could have fun with us whenever he’s being boring. It’ll be brilliant.”

 

“I don’t think –”

 

“We can show you around, see, and a lot of Dwarves do speak Westron better’n me and Fíli so you’ll have no problems! Well, people might stare, but I’m sure they stared when you were an animal.” Kíli’s brow furrowed, making the resemblance between him and Thorin more apparent (without the resemblance of facial hair, needless to say). “I think. Eh, that doesn’t matter.”

 

Fíli nodded, expression as earnest as his brother’s. “What matters is you’ll get Uncle to stop scowling at everyone.” Pause. “Though I don’t really understand why he’s so bad tempered. Worsely tempered.”

 

“ _Tch_. That’s because he was almost poisoned. Or maybe because his _cat_ was poisoned.” Out of the corner of his eye Bilbo could see Kíli turning to face him. “But once you’re back he’ll be happy.”

 

Except he wouldn’t, would he? Thorin did not want Bilbo in his kingdom, even if he believed that Bilbo wasn’t a spy. The Hobbit was sure that he’d have been asked to leave already if his leg hadn’t been so acutely affected by the poison.

 

Bilbo desperately wondered if he’d rather bear the pain of walking or the pain of knowing Thorin hated him – and found he could not answer that question. His head told him one thing, his heart another.

 

Kíli and Fíli were still speaking, debating that which was on Bilbo’s mind: was it possible that Thorin felt responsible for the poisoning? He blocked their chatter, breathed deep through his mouth and closed his eyes. It didn’t matter. Whatever care shown to him by Thorin was gone after he’d shed his cat form.

 

He needed to face that truth, and accept it.

 

“Are you lads done upsetting the Hobbit?” Dís asked.

 

Everyone startled at her voice; Fíli and Kíli in particular looked horrified at the sight of their mother standing within the boundary of the curtain.

 

“‘ _Amad_ , just listen –”

 

“We can explain, please –”

 

She lifted one finger, drawing immediate silence. Even Bilbo didn’t dare break it; from his time here he’d learned that, like her brothers or perhaps even more so, she was not someone to cross. For a long moment everything was still and soundless until she – satisfied – jerked her thumb towards the curtain. “Out.”

 

Bilbo reflected that if he’d still been a cat, with his improved senses, he’d’ve been aware of Dís’ presence earlier; heard the swish of her clothes, the calm tread of her boots, the clink of her jewellery. But he was not a cat, and only watched as Fíli and Kíli slunk out under her stern eye.

 

“Hold the curtain,” another voice called – Frerin. He slipped in, head turned towards his nephews. “There’s a good lad. Now get back to your lessons, or else.”

 

“Yes, Uncle,” Fíli said gloomily. The curtain fell.

 

Frerin was carrying two stools; stone, as Dwarves were wont to use, legs with interlocking patterns that were simpler than any Bilbo had seen in the Mountain. He and Dís ignored Bilbo in favour of placing them by the bed. Then they looked at him.

 

Dís started. “You know us.”

 

“I know… who you are,” Bilbo answered carefully. “I can’t claim to know you.”

 

She smiled thinly. “You have slept in my lap, Hobbit, even if it was in another form. Do not pretend that you are a stranger to us. Or, rather we are not strangers to you,” she corrected. “None of us know much about you… except, perhaps, my meddlesome sons.”

 

“They’re… well meaning.”

 

“Aye, but they don’t often think before they speak.” Dís sighed, her smile turned wry – immediately making her look less severe and only a little less intimidating. “Or act. But you have come to know that.”

 

Bilbo returned the smile cautiously.

 

“Thorin informed us that your name is Bilbo Baggins.” Frerin leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I’ll confess to never meeting a Hobbit before, so I’m not sure if he’d made a mistake.”

 

He felt absurdly pleased at the fact that Thorin had remembered his name – though he did wonder what he had told his siblings. “That is my name,” he confirmed. “And I’d never met a Dwarf before Thorin and all of you.”

 

“I wouldn’t consider Thorin the best example of our people,” Frerin joked. Bilbo had noticed that although Frerin was the lighter hearted (and lighter haired) of his siblings, he seemed to exaggerate that when out of the privacy of the royal quarters. It was likely a ploy so people underestimated him.

 

Bilbo could understand that. It was a good way of getting out of trouble, especially when you were a naughty tween.

 

“But,” Frerin said, bringing Bilbo back to the present, “that is a brother’s biased view. What do you think about Thorin?”

 

“I think he’s a great Dwarf,” he said stoutly. He’d heard enough of Thorin putting himself down to bear it with anyone else. “The best I have ever met.”

 

Dís raised an eyebrow. “The best amongst a handful. Did you really think that when you met him?”

 

“Considering that he took me in out of the rain and fed me _and_ continued to take care of me, yes.” Really, was it any surprise he’d fallen in love with someone who showed kindness without expecting any return? He could still remember that night, and winced at how confused and miserable he’d been… and how he’d met Thorin. “Though he did kick me. Slightly.”

 

Frerin snorted. “Slightly?”

 

“Neither of us saw the other.”

 

“Unsurprising. You were very small as a cat.” He wrinkled his nose. “I thought you juvenile.”

 

“I am fifty,” Bilbo replied crisply. “Fifty-one come September.” What month was it?

 

That seemed to give them pause. Bilbo’s gaze flitted from one to the other in an effort to read their expressions – they seemed taken aback and surprised rather than insulted, as he’d first feared.

 

Dís broke the short silence. “Bilbo, my sons are older than you are.”

 

“But they’re…” _Children_ , he wanted to say. “They can’t be.”

 

“There’s a difference of three decades. Give or take.” Dís swept her hair behind one shoulder, chains and jewels and beads clinking delicately. “And we are more than ten decades older than you.”

 

“How long do Hobbits live?” Frerin asked, resting his chin on his knuckles.

 

“Generally to a hundred.” Bilbo hesitated. “And Dwarves?”

 

“Twice that, usually more.”

 

He lapsed into silence at Dís’ answer. Bilbo had been ignorant of the lifespan of Dwarves – but given the figures, it was entirely possible that he and Thorin could spend the rest of their lives together. Theoretically. There was the problem of Bilbo’s feelings being unrequited… not to mention the fact that Thorin probably considered him no more than a child.

 

“So Hobbits live longer than Men,” Frerin concluded, “but shorter than Dwarves.”

 

“Yes. Despite a lack of deliberate poisoning and assassination.” It perhaps wasn’t the best thing to bring up – his wrist twinged and the deeper ache of his lower leg promised sharper pain – but Bilbo wasn’t one to resist a snarky comment.

 

Neither Dwarf took offence. “And you do not have battles? Even with the Orcs that attack us here?”

 

Whether Frerin meant to or not, his question called to mind the aftermath of that one battle – which had led to extensive injuries on Thorin’s part. Bilbo remembered worriedly remaining by Thorin’s side and constantly having to yowl whenever his – _the_ Dwarf aggravated his wounds. Dís had been much more sensible about her wounds, which had been less serious by virtue of her not taking on a _Troll_ by herself, unlike a certain idiot King.

 

Bilbo cleared his throat. “I don’t think Orcs venture that far south.” At least, he hoped nothing like that had happened in the time he’d been away. Hobbit weapons were scythes and pitchforks to the Orcs’ swords and axes and goodness knew what else. It would be a massacre. “I certainly don’t want it to ever happen.”

 

“It is good that your race is untouched by such evils,” Frerin said quietly. “I didn’t intend to –”

 

“No, no, I – I know you didn’t.” Bilbo had reached out, but pulled back his hand quickly. He had to remember since he was no longer a cat his touch was no longer accepted. “I’m sorry Orcs exist at all.” He did not doubt that there were many Dwarves lost to battles and wars… including those important to their family.

 

Safer topics followed. Intimidating as they were, Dís and Frerin were easy to talk to and less prone to tactlessness than Fíli and Kíli. Information from them was likely more accurate as well, given the knowledge they’d accumulated during their (many) years. Bilbo hoped that his own answers were equally satisfactory. It probably helped that their questions to him weren’t too difficult.

 

Of course, he had this thought too soon.

 

“Bilbo, what are you intentions towards our brother?”

 

Admirably, he didn’t choke, cough, or otherwise lose his composure. He could only wish that he was able to run away, or at least be able to hide under the bed while small enough to remain out of reach. “Nothing. None. I have no intentions.”

 

“That was very quick,” Frerin commented. He glanced at Dís, who had asked the question. She kept silent.

 

Bilbo felt about three inches tall under the scrutiny of her dark eyes, so he lowered his own. “Thorin… your brother, he’s been… very kind. Kinder than a stranger – than I – would deserve. I certainly bear him no ill will.”

 

“No ill will.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Frerin put two fingers beneath Bilbo’s chin and tilted it upwards, blue eyes peering into his face in search of… something. He must have found it, frown abruptly clearing. “You bear something else.” There was surprise in his voice – and hopefully the pity in it was imagined.

 

Bilbo averted his gaze again. Tears prickled. He clenched his jaw.

 

Frerin sighed softly, leaning back. “And you will not tell.”

 

His breath shook. “There’s nothing to tell,” he tried. Bilbo fisted his hands, immediately relaxing them when his right wrist protested. “I am in his debt for housing me, and I will try to repay it as much as I am able. Then I will return to my home.”

 

Not too long ago he had been trying to get used to the idea of the Blue Mountains as his new home. Now it was unnecessary. There was nothing (no one) to hold him here.

 

“This is not a secret you should bear.” Frerin touched Bilbo’s elbow lightly to draw his attention. “If you are not going to tell Thorin –”

 

“I won’t,” Bilbo exclaimed, too alarmed to realise doing so was basically confirming the ‘secret’ of his love for Thorin. He lowered his voice. “I won’t.”

 

Frerin was not to be deterred. “If you aren’t going to tell him, you may still talk to us. To either of us. Anything you tell us will be in the strictest of confidence; no word will leave this place.”

 

“You have our word.” Dís uncrossed her legs, smoothing the heavy fabric of her long tunic. “Óin has informed us that it will take some weeks for you to heal enough to return to the Shire. If we can lighten the burdens of your mind as your body heals, then you need only ask.”

 

He didn’t think he would take them up on their offer – though he wouldn’t be opposed to conversations on other, safer topics – but he appreciated it all the same. Frerin and Dís didn’t have to know that he’d be spending the next few weeks carefully burying his feelings and preparing himself for life back in Bag End. “Thank you. I’d not be opposed to making some friends before I leave.”

 

Frerin clasped his shoulder, smiling. “I am not opposed to that either.”

 

The fair-hared Dwarf rose to his feet, and Bilbo felt a little relieved. Perhaps it was the effect of that silvery medicine, or just emotional fatigue, but he’d rather not yawn or fall asleep while Dís and Frerin were here. It would be the height of rudeness.

 

Dís also stood. When she moved closer to the bed, he assumed that she was going to clasp his shoulder as Frerin had done. Instead she slowly ran her fingers through Bilbo’s curls, pushing them off his forehead and tucking them behind his ear; he leaned into the contact instinctively, mortification spreading across his face when he realised just what was happening. But Dís only smiled. “Rest well, Hobbit.”

 

* * *

 

In the week or so that followed, Bilbo was visited once by Frerin, who was able to coax smiles and even a laugh out of him. He was also visited by Óin, who managed to coax scowls instead: he declared that Bilbo would have to be put in a tunic (considering size differences, it was almost like one of his own nightshirts) so that they wouldn’t have to deal with removing and replacing his trousers every time he needed to be cleaned.

 

The compromise they finally reached was that Bilbo would wash himself (and, no, not by licking himself clean, how hilarious). He was perfectly able to use a cloth and a basin of water, thank you. With the curtain in place, at least he could preserve some privacy.

 

(He’d asked why the curtains were there in the first place. Óin’s answer was that he wanted the Dwarves in the ward to concentrate on themselves – and Bilbo to do the same – instead of being distracted by the presence of someone so foreign.)

 

The medicine regimen continued as well, silvery powder eventually changed into a green paste that was marginally easier on the palate. It always preceded food; Bilbo didn’t realise that he was scrutinising each meal until it was pointed out to him.

 

Well. He had good reason to fear poison. He hoped it wouldn’t carry over when he returned to Hobbiton; having tea at someone else’s home would not go well if he stunted conversation by staring suspiciously at scones.

 

Bilbo looked up Óin bustled in past the curtain.

 

“How do you feel today?”

 

“Same as yesterday.” He lifted his shoulders then dropped them. “Bored.”

 

Óin didn’t look impressed. “Been doing as I asked?” He had asked (ordered, really) Bilbo to start doing simple exercises. These included clenching and unclenching his fingers, flexing and extending his elbows, swinging his arms in gentle circles; all to help with the stiffness and to keep him active.

 

It didn’t prevent it being dull.

 

Rolling his eyes, Óin went to carry out his own examination. Bilbo suffered through the poking and prodding, letting himself be pulled this way and that, knowing that any protest would fall on deaf ears. At least, on hard-of-hearing ears, given that Óin had left his hearing trumpet on the table. It wasn’t comfortable at all, made a little worse by the appalling lack of bedside manner, but being head healer must have counted for something.

 

There was a brief moment of pain when Óin touched his left ankle – no matter how gentle a touch it was – but not so terrible that Bilbo couldn’t grit his teeth through it. It was only for a moment, though, and Óin nodded to himself before removing his hands.

 

“We need to get you off this bed,” he finally announced.

 

“And I would agree with that,” Bilbo said, incredulity creeping across his face, “but for the obvious problem. I can move my toes, and sometimes my ankle, but it’s not going to support me.” Never mind that he had lost more weight than a Hobbit should; he’d just have to fill his pantry and rectify that problem the proper way.

 

“Sitting on your bum will not help you. Especially in a ward.” Óin tutted. “I don’t want your legs to waste away, either. Then you’ll never walk again.”

 

 _That_ caught Bilbo’s attention. “Beg pardon?”

 

“Well, it is an extreme effect,” he admitted. “But still possible. I’d rather it not happen.”

 

He’d rather it not either. “Am I supposed to use a walking stick, then?” Bilbo had never experienced a broken leg before, and not even seen it firsthand, but given the propensity of Hobbitlings for scrumping, there was always someone with a broken limb. He knew of Hobbits who leaned on walking sticks after mostly healing.

 

Still, he didn’t know if this could be an option for him. His leg was not broken. It was… damaged.

 

“Something similar,” Óin said, nodding. “I’d have insisted on it earlier, but I needed to make sure your bones had healed properly. And they have.” He grimaced. “But they are too weak to take your full weight, true. We’ll need to put your leg in a splint.”

 

“Right.” Bilbo blinked. “What’s that?”

 

A splint turned out to be two flat lengths of metal placed along his lower leg, on the front and back, and bound together with bandages. While it didn’t exactly cause him pain, it was not comfortable – even through a padding layer of cloth, Bilbo could feel the cool metal. It kept his leg stiff; he could bend it at the knee (if he was inclined to, and he _wasn’t_ ) but not at the ankle. So… how would this help him walk?

 

“It’ll take some time. You continue your exercises, get some grub in you, rest. You’ll need it.” Óin clapped him on the shoulder. “Tomorrow we’re getting you out of this bed.”

 

“For how long?”

 

The question appeared to throw him. “For however long you’re able to keep your strength up. I wouldn’t expect miracles.”

 

“…long enough to change the sheets?”

 

Óin laughed.

 

* * *

 

“Right,” said Fíli, “the chair by the fire?”

 

“No, this – this one, please.” Even with his walking stick and all his exercise and leaning heavily against Fíli, Bilbo didn’t think he could stand much longer. He collapsed gratefully into the seat, pulling his foot off the floor and wiping the sweat off his upper lip. “Thank you very much.”

 

“No trouble,” was the cheerful reply. “Wouldn’t have minded carrying you either.”

 

“There’d have been staring.” Bilbo carefully placed his walking stick on the ground, within easy reach. It was made of reforged iron, complete with grooves to make it resemble a branch. He wondered who had made it. “More staring.”

 

Fíli shook his head. “There wasn’t much staring.”

 

“I doubt that.”

 

The door shut; at the sound, he and Fíli turned to face Frerin. “My nephew’s right, Bilbo. I think most Dwarves think you’re a Dwarf as well – one involved in an accident serious enough to warrant shaving your beard off – but still a Dwarf.”

 

Bilbo didn’t really know how to react to this information, so he didn’t. Instead he let hazel eyes turn beseeching. “Frerin, I cannot accept this room without recompensing you somehow –”

 

“Oh, don’t start this again, Hobbit.” Standing beside Fíli, it was clear that the younger Dwarf owed his fair hair to Frerin as much as his own father, though the exact shade differed. Frerin’s mouth twisted. “This room is not being used, so you don’t have to worry about deposing someone else.”

 

“Óin did want you out of the ward,” Fíli pointed out helpfully.

 

“Yes, exactly. You’ll be more free to walk around and exercise in here, and no one will bother you. Except me, of course, and I’m glad I don’t have to trudge all the way to the healing wing.”

 

“Sorry to have inconvenienced you,” Bilbo said.

 

“Not a problem.” Frerin winked, walking toward the fireplace and sprawling in the chair Fíli had pointed out earlier. “Especially since you’re a few doors down from my rooms.”

 

“And ours.” When he caught Bilbo’s gaze, Fíli clarified: “Kíli and I have adjoining rooms… apparently until I come of age.” He didn’t sound very impressed by this fact.

 

“You will miss it soon enough,” Frerin said lightly. “When your duties extend beyond shared lessons.” He held up a finger, the ring upon it glittering gold and blue. “That reminds me; shouldn’t you join Kíli?”

 

“But Uncle –”

 

“No, no, I’m not going to have Víli grinding my gems for letting you skive off. I only asked you for this favour because you are closest to Bilbo’s height. And because that bastard trying to get on the Council thinks I’m an idiot.” He snorted.

 

“Fine.” Fíli’s pout was mulish, and he grumbled goodbyes before leaving.

 

Bilbo shook his head. “You didn’t really ask him because of that.”

 

“Naran’s not really a bastard, no. And while it’s good that he and others underestimate me, he _really_ does chip at my cliff –”

 

“No, I meant about Fíli being…” Bilbo paused, considering. “Short.” He certainly didn’t think Fíli was short – so far he’d not seen a Dwarf his height, but he’d not exactly met very many Dwarves. Not to mention, for most of the time he’d been in the company of Dwarves, he’d been a tiny cat and everyone had towered over him. But that wasn’t relevant.

 

Frerin laughed. “I was just teasing the lad. He’s had his nose out of joint just a’cause Kíli’s taller than he is. But Fíli must come to realise that being short or tall isn’t important – what’s important is what’s in your heart and your head.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

“I think you’ve more than proven your capabilities,” he said gently. “In both areas.”

 

Despite the twinge in his chest, Bilbo only smiled. Frerin and Dís had not broken his confidence – not to his knowledge, but he didn’t think they would be so cruel – so his feelings, his love for Thorin was still a secret. To claim that he had accepted Thorin’s indifference was a lie. Bilbo had never before felt as strongly about someone, and he doubted that he would again. He just… had to be realistic.

 

After all, when Bilbo returned to the Shire, he’d still have the memories: Thorin’s deep chuckles, his snarky humour, his pale eyes.

 

His rare smiles.

 

“Oh!” Frerin shot out of his seat, startling Bilbo from his self pity. He went to a low table, gesturing to a stack of: “Clothes! I almost forgot. They’re in here, and measured against your old clothes, so there shouldn’t be too many problems.”

 

So long as trousers were included, there wouldn’t be problems at all. “Thank you, Frerin.” He’d have to extend his gratitude to Dís when she next visited. Likely they were both behind this.

 

“And here are boots. I guessed at the size – your feet are really unusually big – and they might be a little heavier than you’re used to. But we’ll see what we can do.”

 

Bilbo blinked. “I don’t… wear boots.”

 

Frerin straightened, confusion written all over his face.

 

“We don’t need to,” Bilbo continued, “our soles are thick and hardy enough for most terrains.” It was odd that this hadn’t come up in any of their conversations about the differences of their people. “I wasn’t wearing them when I turned back into, er, me.”

 

“Huh. We just assumed you’d’ve been wearing them but for your injury.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “You Hobbits are a strange lot.”

 

“Coming from someone who thinks tucking beards into belts is fashionable –”

 

“It _is_ fashionable.”

 

“As are handkerchiefs.”

 

Frerin put his hands up in an effort to placate Bilbo. “Is there anything else you require?” He quickly added: “Besides handkerchiefs.”

 

Bilbo tried to sigh discreetly. The Dwarves had already been so kind to him, and even now freely offered all they could give him. He really should find a way to repay them. “May I have parchment and ink?” he finally asked, a little hesitant. “If it’s not any trouble.”

 

“None at all,” Frerin assured. “Do you mean to send letters to your relatives?”

 

He… hadn’t actually thought of that. “I don’t think a letter’s going to be as effective as my presence.” There was still hope that his home and everything in it hadn’t been auctioned away. “I enjoy writing, is all. Poems, songs, the odd story.”

 

“Just like Víli.” His blue eyes sparkled. “Goes to show he married into our family; the rest of us aren’t as learned as him. Dís is the only one who comes close.”

 

Bilbo had only interacted with Víli a few times – mostly when he had been a cat – and the Dwarf did seem quiet. He always managed to make Dís laugh, though; a must in any good marriage, his father had always said.

 

“Do you draw, Bilbo?”

 

“I sketch. Not very well.” He found copying maps easier.

 

Frerin nodded to himself. “I’ll include some charcoal as well, then.” He tugged on a large silver clasp by his ear that held three braids together. There were two matching beads in his beard.

 

“Charcoal? What for?” The air inside the mountain was cool, but not uncomfortably so; Bilbo had already grown accustomed to it enough that the merrily dancing fire wasn’t strictly necessary. And, at any rate, “The fireplace is well stocked, I thought.”

 

“Weren’t you listening? It’s used for drawing – or sketching, whichever. Sometimes we give pigmented gypsum to Dwarflings, because they like the colours… and because it’s not too much of a problem if they eat it. What do Hobbits use?”

 

“Quills and pens.”

 

“Pens.” By the way Frerin’s mouth formed the word he clearly had no idea what they were (just as Bilbo had no idea what ‘gypsum’ was). “What is a pen and how does it work?”

 

“Well, you get a reed straw from by the river, and then shape the end like a quill’s nib. They’re not as strong as quills, though.” Bilbo remembered his mother teaching him how to make reed pens. He’d spent most of the morning wading through ankle deep water – and strictly forbidden from going further – to find the _perfect_ reed, and then sitting in Belladonna’s lap as she guided him in shaping it.

 

Over dinner, when he’d shown his father the product of his hard work, Bungo had been _so_ proud that when the pen inevitably fell to pieces after all of two days, he’d gifted Bilbo with a properly fancy quill. He still had it, in a small box on his desk. If it and all the rest of his belongings were still where they’d been left, that is.

 

“Right. Perhaps we should be trading writing materials with the Shire.”

 

“We’re hardly lacking charcoal,” he replied dryly. “What could you possibly offer in return?”

 

Frerin pushed his hair behind an ear, showing off the line of bejewelled earrings he wore. “What do you _think_? Dwarves have always traded with gold and gems.”

 

“Not with Hobbits. I’m quite sure that I explained that we aren’t obsessed with material wealth.” Reminded of certain relatives, he reconsidered his words. “Most of us aren’t, that is.”

 

“I do not approve of the implication that Dwarves are _mad_ about gold.” His frown melted away as a wicked grin lit his features. “Especially from a tiny creature who couldn’t concentrate on anything else but chasing after shiny baubles.”

 

Bilbo calmly reached for his walking stick. Frerin remained where he was, looking on curiously – and realised too late to move out of the way when Bilbo swung it at him.

 

* * *

 

Enough weeks passed in the Blue Mountains that Bilbo wondered if he’d now spent an equal amount of time there as a cat and as a Hobbit. It was entirely possible.

 

He sat back.

 

Strange that his life had changed so much by the (unsuspecting) will of a Wizard. He’d been set in his bachelorhood and perfectly happy – or thought he’d been perfectly happy. Now that he’d lived amongst Dwarves, as a cat and as a Hobbit, he had to admit that he’d been bored as well.

 

Now, though, he was armed with new knowledge gleaned from newly made friends. He’d kept the company of royalty and lived past an attempt on his life. He’d fallen in love. All in the weeks that he had been here.

 

When he went home and settled all the necessary affairs – and was properly healed – then… then he could try adventuring on his own. He should. If he was brave enough. Bilbo had already met Dwarves, so this time he would visit Elves (under his own control, he might add). There were maps decorating the walls of his study, so he might as well _use_ them.

 

Yes, that sounded like an excellent idea, if a little frightening. He should ask Frerin and Dís if they were on better terms with Elves than –

 

Someone knocked on the door.

 

Bilbo jumped; he quickly put down his quill and reached for the rag on the table. His fingers were not too stained with ink but it wouldn’t do to be so slovenly when entertaining company. He quickly folded the square of cloth once he was done and then closed his fingers around the walking stick he’d leaned against the table.

 

“Just a moment,” he called, just as the knock sounded again. How impatient. If this visitor was here to see him, they should have been aware of his injury and his inability to leap up and answer the door. He grumbled about this under his breath as he levered himself out of his seat. The walking stick clunked dully on every other step; faster than when Bilbo had to wear the splint. Pleased at this, he reached for the door handle.

 

It swung open. His smile died. Thorin’s expression stayed blank.

 

There were many other things that Bilbo would’ve expected before he even considered the Dwarf King standing outside his door. Meeting Trolls, for instance. Being chased by giant spiders and chasing them in return. Even flying amongst the clouds on the wings of some massive bird. Instead there Thorin stood, serious and stoic and silent.

 

Bilbo didn’t know what to say.

 

Thorin dipped his head. “May I come in?”

 

“Yes!” He winced at the almost shout, trying to move out of the way without falling over his own feet. “Yes, of course, please.”

 

The door quietly closed behind him. Bilbo knew immediately that Thorin had come here after a bath and change of clothes; he’d experienced it so many times before – before. ThorinThorin was out of official armour, dressed in tunic and undershirt, soft trousers, and simple boots. His brow was crownless, belt without weapons, hair just a shade from being damp and smelling of sweet oil.

 

The silence between them was very awkward – both stood facing each other, gazes locked. Bilbo could feel his leg shaking and leaned more heavily on his walking stick. He had no excuse for the racing of his heart.

 

“Do not be foolish, Hobbit. Sit. I do not wish to cause you hurt.”

 

He swallowed. “What _do_ you wish?” Bilbo asked, slowly lowering himself onto a chair. He didn’t smart at being called _Hobbit_ , instead concentrating on rotating his ankle and stretching his toes. The stiffness in his leg gradually faded away as he waited for Thorin’s answer.

 

It came slowly. “I had grown… accustomed to speaking with you.” He cleared his throat. “While you were in your other form.”

 

Bilbo refrained from pointing out that Thorin had actually been speaking _at_ him just as he refrained from pointing out that _this_ was his only form – being a cat hadn’t been a controllable ability, it had been a cruel accident.

 

Thorin clasped his hands behind his back, spine straight as a poplar, towering over the Hobbit. “I have come here to ask if we may continue that arrangement.”

 

“You don’t have to ask,” Bilbo said without thinking. “I am at your command.”

 

This declaration – and perhaps the word choice – had thick eyebrows rising almost to the King’s hairline.

 

Bilbo should have blushed or looked away, but he could not feel shame in seizing the opportunity to spend as much time with Thorin as possible. He took some comfort in the fact that it was not an entirely selfish decision: he truly did wish to alleviate the many burdens Thorin bore. As many as he could, that was.

 

And indeed as Thorin sat, Bilbo’s practiced eye noted that his shoulders _had_ relaxed. Marginally.

 

It was _something_.

 

Thorin cast a glance over the books (all in Westron, of course) on the low table between them. All were lying open to maps of Eriador. He looked up. “I trust you will continue being silent about all that has happened.”

 

Bilbo again kept his silence. If he spoke he was sure that his words would wobble and give away his upset, if his expression hadn’t betrayed him already. _I do not wish to cause you hurt_. Perhaps not knowingly. Perhaps.

 

Thorin took this lack of reply as compliance. He fiddled with a chunky ring on his forefinger. “The ambassadors from the Grey Mountains are insisting that trading our clear quartz for their granite,” he said, voice laced with a sigh, “but we have enough for our building needs, so I do not see why the Council…”

 

Being a sympathetic ear to Thorin’s problems felt odd now. It took Bilbo several minutes to realise that he was constantly tamping down on the urge to offer advice. He needed to remember that he’d never been able to do so before – the transformation into a cat leaving him unable to _speak_. The King had not suffered for it.

 

As it was, he could only understand half the terms Thorin used; he was a Hobbit and he had no knowledge of mining or trading or politics. (At least, not the politics of Dwarven society. Hobbit politics had a lot to do with tradition and public opinion and the approval of family heads. He didn’t miss that aspect of Shire life.)

 

More to the point, even if Bilbo had relevant counsel, he doubted it would have been welcomed. It was easier and safer to lose himself in Thorin’s voice. The last time he had heard that rich timbre was when Thorin had accused him of being a spy.

 

Though Thorin had been disabused of that assumption, he had not bothered to further grace the Hobbit with his company. At this point Bilbo was more familiar with Frerin and Dís – even Fíli and Kíli – than he was with the Dwarf that had _taken him in_. He knew far more about Thorin than Thorin knew about him.

 

That made him feel… defeated, really.

 

Thorin was just finishing a rant about the quality of steel billets affecting forge welding – and how the bladesmiths were suffering for it. He was leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees, and hadn’t seemed to notice that Bilbo’s attention had wandered – it was possible that he preferred it that way. Less likelihood of their ‘conversation’ being repeated. Bilbo clenched his jaw.

 

Silence fell, again uncomfortable, but Bilbo made no move to break it. Instead he kept his expression blank, meeting pale blue eyes and unsure if this was motivated by bravado or fear. His gaze did not waver.

 

Finally Thorin spoke. “Have all your needs been met?”

 

He nodded. “Dís and Frerin have been very kind.”

 

By the way Thorin’s eyes narrowed, he’d caught Bilbo’s deliberate wording. Good.

 

He wasn’t insinuating that Thorin was incapable of being kind – he _had_ experienced that selfless kindness firsthand. But once Bilbo had been returned to his body and dismissed as a threat, Thorin had turned indifferent. He had not even been curious about Bilbo like the rest of his family – at least, not curious enough to grace Bilbo with his presence.

 

Not until now. Now Thorin had decided to visit him but for his own purposes, not curiosity and certainly not… anything else. ( _Why_ did Bilbo keep expecting the latter? Surely he was more realistic than to hope for something that wouldn’t happen.) He had come here, made his intentions clear, and would leave at the end of it.

 

So, while Bilbo thought that sacrificing some of his time was a small way of repaying Thorin, he also held simmering annoyance at being useful only when Thorin thought it convenient.

 

“When will you leave for your home?”

 

Of course he would ask that. “As soon as Óin says so, I’ll… go.” He wasn’t quite sure how long the journey would take. He’d have to ask. “I have to heal enough to be able to walk that distance.”

 

“Why not take a pony instead?”

 

“I don’t know how to ride a pony.” His allergies were likely returned, as well. “And I don’t want to trouble you further, especially since I’ll not be returning.

 

Thorin’s chin barely dipped in a nod before he straightened, then stood. “Thank you,” he said stiffly. “For… listening.”

 

By the time Bilbo had gotten his feet beneath him, Thorin had already reached the door and pulled it open. He stepped out and reached for the handle, pausing when he saw that Bilbo had followed. He raised severe eyebrows.

 

“Will you… come back?” Bilbo put his chin up despite the blossoming blush across his cheeks. “If you need to talk?”

 

“Yes,” Thorin said simply, and closed the door.

 

* * *

 

Thorin kept his word. His visits were sporadic at first, sometimes days apart, sometimes hours. One memorable occasion had Thorin knocking and entering while Dís and Bilbo were in mid-conversation. He looked exactly like he’d bitten into a large lemon. Dís, on the other hand, just smiled and stood, excusing herself.

 

Thorin being the ridiculous Dwarf that he was had left seconds later, flushed splotchily.

 

Bilbo had sighed and went to practice his walking.

 

Soon enough it became routine, Thorin confiding in Bilbo, enough that they started doing so over shared dinner. It was almost the same arrangement they’d had before; the prime difference was that Bilbo was seated at the table instead of _on_ it. And he could use cutlery. And speak.

 

To Bilbo’s amazement, their interactions were not overwhelmingly one-way. He _did_ actually speak beyond exchanging greetings and acknowledging Thorin. There were real questions, not simple enquiries of his health or his food.

 

“Most of those questions could’ve been answered by Frerin or me,” Dís said. She was perched on the edge of the bed. “Or at least answered earlier if he hadn’t wasted so much time being an idiot.”

 

“He thought he had a cat that didn’t understand a word he was saying,” Bilbo replied, voice gentle. “Though I won’t deny that he is an idiot.”

 

Thorin may have seemed more interested in Bilbo beyond being an outlet for the stress he bore, but he was still stiff and formal around the Hobbit. His actions and expressions made it quite clear that any friendship and affection he’d felt for Bilbo-the-cat did not extend to Bilbo-the-Hobbit. It was either that or Thorin was very good at hiding his feelings. Doubtful.

 

He sighed. It was for the best, really.

 

“It feels odd. That you’re leaving,” Dís clarified, having caught his questioning glance. “I’ve become accustomed to having you around.”

 

“I’ve become accustomed to _being_ around. But I… need to go home.” Bilbo still required his walking stick, but he would be able to travel without aggravating his past injury. He could take frequent breaks, anyhow. He made sure his notes fit into his bag and tucked a blanket beneath the flap before closing it. “I think that’s it.”

 

Dís reached out and lightly scratched her fingers along his scalp. As always, it calmed Bilbo immediately. “Perhaps in the future we’ll visit the Shire.”

 

He snorted. “You’ll frighten the neighbours.”

 

“I don’t care,” she declared. “You’d best be prepared to demonstrate those cooking skills you’ve boasted about.”

 

“I will,” Bilbo said, knowing it was an empty promise. This would be the last time they saw each other; it wasn’t so much pessimism talking, but the truth. Still, imagining his Dwarf friends at the dining table in Bag End made his heart glow. They might empty his pantry, and he’d probably need to put away his best crockery in case of breakages, but it’d be _lovely_.

 

If only.

 

* * *

 

There were a handful of Dwarves waiting by the mountain’s entrance; Fíli and Kíli crushed Bilbo between them while their father was a little more sedate in his farewell. Dís had already said her goodbyes, and now squeezed his shoulder, eyes kind. Even Dwalin was there. They had not shared many words – or much time – together, but his presence made Bilbo smile, even (especially?) when the broad-shouldered Dwarf ruffled his curls.

 

Last was Thorin. He was crownless and dressed in deep blue, looking almost meek in the bright sunshine. Bilbo’s heart beat louder when he stepped close.

 

“I mean to tell you…” Thorin hesitated; his voice was deep, quiet enough that Bilbo had to strain to hear. “I have appreciated your companionship as a cat.” He gripped the pommel of his sword. “And as you are now.”

 

“I’ve enjoyed my time here.” Mostly. “And I can only thank you. I…” Bilbo summoned up his courage; in for a berry, in for a pie. “I wish I could stay.”

 

Thorin looked taken aback by this admission but quickly dropped the surprise, his face softening. He retrieved something from a belt pouch and held out… Bilbo’s eyes widened. His – _the_ collar, sitting in Thorin’s hand, light catching the strand of mithril and the facets of the gems.

 

Bemusedly, Bilbo accepted it, staring down at the leather band. What had gone around his cat neck was now only just big enough to adorn his wrist. He could still remember the first time Thorin had given this to him and he was sure Thorin remembered as well. Why had he kept it?

 

“Just something to… remember us by.”

 

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget this adventure,” Bilbo said softly. His lips did not curve into a smile as he met pale eyes. _I don’t think I’ll ever forget you_. “Thank you.”

 

The King nodded and stepped back. All the Dwarves seemed to form a line, standing tall, facets of jewellery and blades of weapons glinting in the sun. (There was one missing; Frerin was presumably seeing to some unavoidable duty, as was the risk for royalty.) Bilbo carefully looked over each one, trying to commit them all to memory.

 

He nodded a little to himself and half-turned to face the path. It meandered down the mountain and stretched across the grassy plain. Eventually he would come across that Mannish town where all of this had started… and later he’d be back in the Shire. The thought left him feeling that he simultaneously wanted to leave and wanted to stay. But that wasn’t very practical.

 

Bilbo breathed out, adjusting his bag strap with one hand and tightly holding on to his walking stick with the other.

 

It was time.

 

A heavy arm dropped over his shoulder, startling Bilbo as much as the jangle of bracelets by his ear. He looked up into Frerin’s blue eyes and wide smile. Oh. “I was wondering why you weren’t here.”

 

“Apologies,” Frerin said, shaking Bilbo a little. “Did you actually think I’d not say goodbye?”

 

“ _I’m_ not the late one,” he said pointedly. There was no heat in his tone; truth be told he was grateful for even a few minutes of delay. He’d miss the Blue Mountains and the Dwarves he’d met. He’d miss spending time with Frerin and Dís. And he’d miss Thorin.

 

“Pardon me, Mr. Baggins. I was busy making sure all the supplies are in order.”

 

“Supplies?”

 

“Certainly. Just goes to show how unprepared you are for the trip home, since you’ve hardly any food in that tiny pack of yours. I’m going to need more than that.”

 

“You –” Bilbo frowned, trying to pull away from Frerin’s hold. “What?”

 

“I am not going to survive two weeks with so little food,” was the reply, each word spoken maddeningly slowly as if Bilbo could not understand Westron. “And you are not going to take two weeks if you walk all the way.”

 

Glancing back at the other Dwarves was no help at all; none of them look surprised at Frerin’s nonsense and – _what_ was that behind Fíli and Kíli?

 

“Ah, you see? Prepared.” Frerin squeezed Bilbo’s shoulder again before releasing him. As Bilbo watched warily, the Dwarf said his own farewells, making sure to knock his forehead against Dís’ and Thorin’s own. Then he bid Fíli and Kíli forward, and –

 

“This one is your pony.”

 

It was about an inch taller than Bilbo was, with a brown coat and a lighter mane and tail. It didn’t _look_ dangerous, but that poisoned lamb hadn’t looked dangerous either. Bilbo twitched his nose, and patted his weskit pocket for a handkerchief that wasn’t there. Blast.

 

Frerin snorted. “Myrtle isn’t going to bite.”

 

“She’ll take good care of you,” Dís soothed. “She helped teach Kíli to ride when… well, when he was your age, and she was very gentle even though the poor lad was terrified.”

 

“‘ _Amad_!”

 

Gentle or not, Bilbo absolutely did _not_ want to ride a pony. There was a reason why Hobbits took _walking_ holidays (with the occasional hitched ride on a passing cart). No, no, he was going to put his foot down. “Um. I can’t –”

 

“Oh, not to worry, Bilbo.” Frerin had already mounted his pony; it was dark and more sprightly than Myrtle. “Fíli and Kíli will get you on her back, won’t you, lads?”

 

“No, no,” he said, stepping back as the two brothers advanced with matching grins. “That won’t be necessary –!”

 

* * *

 

In time, Bilbo admitted that Frerin’s company was much appreciated. He would have wallowed in his thoughts if he had gone alone. There was no time for self-pity, not when Frerin kept him busy with ridiculous stories and word games. And even Bilbo could admit that Myrtle was sweet and deserving of all the apples and carrots he could spare.

 

That didn’t mean he liked riding on ponies. His bottom was entirely too sore, sore enough that he’d rather have walked and dealt with aching legs.

 

Frerin snorted. “If not for Myrtle and Daisy –” the Dwarf’s dark mount “– then we’d not have arrived here as soon as we did. Who knows what your relatives would’ve done.”

 

That was true. They’d been all but ready to break down the door and auction off his belongings. The height of rudeness, all in all, not to mention what they did to the flowers. Hamfast’s hard work, all gone to waste. He’d have to recompense the Gamgees, not only for tending to the garden, but for keeping scavengers off his property for as long as they had.

 

Even with this silliness, Bilbo was immensely glad to be home.

 

He and Frerin had arrived in the height of summer, when the Shire was filled with bright flowers in reds and yellows and pinks, giggling Hobbitlings darting through the fields, chasing buzzing bees and fluttering butterflies. They attracted more than a few stares – being a Dwarf-stranger and a Hobbit-thought-missing riding on ponies along the road to Hobbiton. But that was to be expected.

 

Just yesterday he’d gone to market – without Frerin, who’d been snoring in Bilbo’s best guest room – and his progress had been preceded by stares and followed by whispers. He was sure that none of the gossip was mean spirited and ignored it in favour of the stalls filled with fresh fruits and vegetables – a breath of fresh air after meat-centric Dwarvish cuisine. He could hardly be blamed for buying a second basket to hold all his shopping.

 

Bilbo also bought several kerchiefs in varying shades of blue – perhaps to compensate all the time he’d gone without. One could never have too many handkerchiefs.

 

He was particularly pleased to return to Bag End. Everything was now _exactly_ the right size. He wasn’t swimming in too large beds, he no longer strained to reach high shelves, he was able to wear his own _clothes_ (which were loose, but not as loose as Dwarven hand-me-downs). And here were his books and his study, his mother’s crockery and his father’s pipe.

 

Despite some lingering pain, Bilbo finally felt at peace – because though he had left a part of his heart in the Blue Mountains, most of it already belonged to the Shire. _He_ belonged to the Shire.

 

A clatter of metal startled him from his thoughts. Bilbo blinked, noting that Frerin had kindly put his plate and cutlery on the floor beside his cup, both within easy reach. He’d have to bully his guest into washing them later.

 

“Would you like more wine?” he asked. Frerin shook his head and Bilbo hobbled over to refill his own glass. In an effort not to scuff the floor, he was using his father’s short cane; the metal walking stick he’d been given was leaning by the front door. He didn’t foresee using it again – barring any limb injuries – so it would sit there and serve as a reminder of his first adventure.

 

Just like the gem-studded leather he wore around his wrist.

 

“Dís will be very envious of me,” Frerin said smugly. “Since I have partaken of your apricot pie.”

 

“Finished half of it, you mean. I’d send one for her, but I know you’d eat it on the way.”

 

“Couldn’t you do that all the same?”

 

“No.”

 

Frerin sighed.

 

“Do you have enough food, though? I can make some honey cakes, those last quite long.” Bilbo worried at his lower lip, tasting the blackcurrant tang of the wine. “Or bread? Bell stopped by this morning with some beet chutney, if you’d like –”

 

“Stop fretting,” Frerin laughed. “If I carry any more food I’ll be round as a boulder by the time I’m home.”

 

“ _You_ won’t be carrying the food,” Bilbo pointed out.

 

“Aye. But even two ponies cannot bear the load of all the food you want to supply. And they cannot bear the load of a Dwarf who’ll eat all that food.” He winked. “I’ve told you, Hobbit, I’m well ready for the road ahead. I’m just –”

 

“Waiting.” He narrowed his eyes. “Yes, but _what_ are you waiting for?”

 

Frerin grimaced and opened his mouth –

 

 _Tap, tap, tap_.

 

“Precisely that,” he said, grinning. He sprung up off the cushion he’d been sitting on – Bilbo winced briefly when heavy boots thumped dangerously close to his used crockery – and rushed to the window. Opening it brought fresh air and sunlight into the room – as well as a startlingly large black bird. It landed on Frerin’s shoulder and immediately poked its beak through his light hair.

 

Taken aback and somewhat afraid, Bilbo stared. He gripped his cane tightly, just in case.

 

“This is Mälac. A Raven,” Frerin explained, and the black-feathered bird cawed in agreement. “She and her kind have served as messengers for our family for many centuries. Now she will carry written messages between you and Ered Luin.”

 

“Written messages?”

 

Frerin smiled. “Since she cannot speak Westron, that is what we must do.”

 

Bilbo cautiously considered Mälac as she turned a beady eye on him. “Do Ravens usually speak?”

 

“Mälac’s family do. I don’t know if it is the same with other flocks. Possibly not, now that you mention it.” He rubbed the back of his neck, expression unsure. “I hope you don’t think us presumptuous, but we want to keep in touch. It would be a pity to lose a friend just because of distance.”

 

“Don’t be so silly,” Bilbo said. He met Frerin’s eyes, happy to see the uncertainty fade away. “Of _course_ I want us to remain friends. I’m glad you had the forethought to, er, involve Maläc.”

 

“You may thank my siblings for that.” Frerin snapped his fingers. “And I need to let them know I’m leaving.” He winked, turning away to approach the window again. He murmured quietly to the Raven and the creature cocked its head as if it could _understand_ Dwarvish – bearing in mind Frerin’s explanation, it probably could.

 

Bilbo could only focus on this strangeness for a moment. Frerin had said to thank his _siblings_ – not Dís only. Both his siblings.

 

He swallowed down his hope. It didn’t matter. All that was in the past; he should concentrate on the present, the now that had Frerin tapping Bilbo’s forehead gently.

 

“I’ve sent Mälac on her way,” he said, “and I should follow while the weather is good.”

 

“The weather is absolutely fine.” Bilbo frowned, standing and heading out of the sitting room. (It had to be noted that Frerin hadn’t washed his plate, but Bilbo figured that he’d allow it. The Dwarf _had_ put it by the washbasin, which was something of a miracle.)

 

“Hah! Tell that to the sky.”

 

Stepping out of his round green door, Bilbo frowned when he saw the darkening clouds. That dashed his plans to read in the garden. “You should stay one more day,” he suggested hopefully, following Frerin down the steps to the gate, pace sedate. “Or at least until the clouds clear.”

 

Frerin laughed. “Would that I could! But…” He absently stroked Myrtle’s neck. Both ponies were hitched to the fence, munching idly on grass and weeds. (And, Bilbo frowned, some of his purple aster.) “Second son or not, I can only escape duties for so long.”

 

“As you say,” Bilbo sighed. He’d have to grow accustomed to living alone… as he had done before. He smiled up at his friend. “It’s been lovely having you as a guest. Just like I was your guest.”

 

“I’ve enjoyed the stay – and the food – immensely.” His smile diminished, face turning serious for a moment. “Thank you, Bilbo.”

 

He squeaked as Frerin engulfed him in a hug, actually pulling Bilbo off his feet. “Thank me? But – I haven’t done anything!”

 

“You gave me a good reason to leave the Mountain, if only for awhile.” He chuckled; letting Bilbo down, he made sure the Hobbit could stand unaided before stepping back. “You have been a good friend, and I know you’ll continue to be one.”

 

“Of course,” Bilbo promised, nodding.

 

Frerin grasped Bilbo’s shoulders and very carefully bumped their foreheads together. “And thank you for making my brother smile. Smile more often, that is. And I know,” he said, rising his voice a little to stem the protests from Bilbo, “I know he’d been less than friendly after you returned to your proper shape. But you know how he is.”

 

And… Bilbo did.

 

“I do not know if this will bring you comfort, but I believe – I know that Thorin has been lucky to have you in his life.” Frerin straightened. “And I am very glad he brought you to our Mountain.”

 

Bilbo made sure to stand out on the road, waving until he could no longer see Frerin, then lingered a few moments longer. It took thunder rumbling overhead to snap him free from his melancholy and fat droplets of rain splashed into his curls. As Bilbo hurried into Bag End he thought about big hands cradling his cat body.

 

The door shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, um. you should've noticed that there'll be two more chapters? but at least this one was pretty long? /runs away
> 
> (p.s. school's starting soon... and either there'll be less fic or there'll be more than usual. we'll see.)


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